An Undisclosed Place by Vati Sreiberg

Cellblock B 5:15 a.m.

What does one pray for…a cooler cell…more digestible food…longer hours of light…a cellmate? Does one pray that the man with fat hands, cold eyes, and a short stubble of hair not return to my cell today, not pull me out for questioning, doesn’t insist I am who he thinks I am—when I am not?

Did I carry that bomb? you ask. Actually, I tell you, it was a vest the authorities insisted I was wearing, a vest that was meant to explode and kill me as well as all those around me. Besides, what does it matter if I say yes, I carried it, or if I say no? Your people have chosen to believe that we are all terrorists. Your interrogators believe nothing I have said.

It matters, you say, pen in hand, because you cannot record me having bribed your way inside.

Do you mind? I ask gently. It is time for me to pray.

As you step out of the cell, you turn toward me. In your eyes, I see fatigue and frustration but also hope, and I wonder if perhaps you are what you say you are: a journalist who wants the real story about this place and about me to tell the world.

I lay out my blanket, bow, and pray that we will overcome the need for violence one day, that the spirit of compassion and peace will envelop this world and seal the cracks humans have created, returning us to wholeness. I lift my blanket, fold it into a neat square, and place it at the end of my cot, which takes up one entire wall of my cell. There is a sink and a toilet as well. I am one of the lucky ones. The vest they said I was wearing did not go off. I am not accused of murdering anyone, only planning to do so, so I have a toilet, sink, and cot. I have heard that others have nothing, just a concrete slab and four walls. Perhaps this is untrue, propaganda from others who are incarcerated, I really don’t know.

When you return that night, I apologize for my stubbornness. I will try to give you the story as I experienced it.

I was in the market they speak of because I was in that market every day. I sell cloth, or I used to sell cloth when people had lives there, when the streets were safe, and there was money to spend. Yes, I know our leader was a brutal man and that he murdered thousands, maybe tens of thousands, but our city had peace for many years, and our market flourished, and I sold cloth. Then your soldiers came and told us they were bringing the flag of freedom. Still, all of these years later, the market is not safe; bombs go off, guns are fired. There is neither freedom nor peace.

Why, you ask, was I in the market that particular day? I repeat, I was in that market every day, for where else would I go? I had gone there every morning for thirty years. My father sold cloth. My grandfather sold cloth, and so I sold cloth as well, lovely fabrics that traveled from the villages to the city, woven and embroidered, to be sewn into long shirts for men and dresses for women, long skirts that flowed around their legs when they danced. Yes, we do dance. Once we danced in joy. Not anymore. Fanatics and war. Now women cannot be seen on the streets without an escort. Now women get blown up by terrorist bombs. My daughter, did I tell you I had a daughter? Ah, I see from your expression that you already know this. Yes, I understand they believe that she was my motive to hurt people, but how is my one-legged daughter a reason to create more one-legged daughters? I do not understand this logic.

And so, you ask me again, and I say, No, I did not wear the dropped vest found near my stall in the market. No, I had no desire to harm anyone, let alone the people who bought my cloth, but I have said this before, and no one has believed me because we are all the same to them. You think we all look alike, and what does it matter if they pick up the wrong man as long as he looks right, is in the right place, lives in the right city, the right country—the country of terrorists? But your actions helped create such a country, so perhaps you should jail your politicians and generals. Not an innocent cloth seller.

How long have I been detained? I have been here for four years, two months, nine days, and I will be here until they let me go. Or not. That is how destiny works. I am just a tiny speck in the enormous fate of the world.

Thank you, you say, promising to print my story in your magazine.

I wish you a safe journey home.

Cellblock B 10:00 p.m.

I unfold my blanket and touch my head to the ground. I pray for the innocent children of this world, and then I go to sleep.

 

 

About the author: Vati loves nothing more than to write and has been writing in some form most of her life. Though currently bedridden, her imagination travels daily. She has a finished novel for which she is trying to find a home and is working on a collection of flash.  She was a founding editor and writer for Stone Walls II journal and is a longtime member of Straw Dog Writers Guild. Her novella was published in Scarlet Leaf Review.

Contact her at vatisreiberg@gmail.com

Rest for the Weary by Camden Rose

It starts with cake in the workroom, white with bright pink frosting, dripping in sugar and high fructose corn syrup. 

I stare at the frosting. I can already feel the inevitable stomachache. It’s probably left over from a kid’s birthday celebration, one of the over-involved parents that wanted to one-up every other kid’s parents.

As I cut myself a slice on my break, I push down the nagging feeling of deja vu. The frosting, the writing on top, everything even including how much is left feels like it’s been taken directly from the dream I had last night.

Still, it’s cake, kid-wrangling is exhausting, and I haven’t slept in weeks. I need this. 

So, I eat as much as I can in five minutes, then rush to the bathroom. I only have seven minutes before I need to pick my kids up from Art, and I know Mrs. Chang will glare at me if I’m late.

#

Whenever I tell people I’m an elementary school teacher, they look at me like I told them their dog had died. Then, if they’re the touchy type, they put a hand on my shoulder as though that single act will revitalize my zombie-like state and bring back the passion I’m supposed to have. Or, if they’re a parent, they ask if I provide after school tutoring, for a discounted rate of course.

Truth be told though, I don’t have time to hate it or love it for that matter. I only have time to grade, teach, eat, and sometimes sleep.

In fact, grading is the only time I can actually relax. I turn on HGTV and watch a couple or sibling pair renovate a house into something grandiose and beautiful.

In many ways, I like to imagine I’m the house. Full of beauty, only if someone took a sledgehammer to my walls.

I yawn and stamp the third test with “You’re Out of This World.” I’ve debated switching to online tests in the past and this time is no different. Twenty-seven to go, and even though I have a key, it doesn’t make the process any faster. But, having to help 30 third graders navigate taking a test online will be more work than grading paper copies in my own time.

I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but when I wake up, I’ve drooled over Shanni K’s second page, and the family on TV is gasping in joy at their new home. It has a built-in pool on the second floor—something I know will cause water damage in the long run but looks gorgeous now—and a miniature basketball court in one of the kid’s rooms. I chuckle and wipe drool off my face. That kid will be interested in basketball for two more years, maybe, then he’ll move on to something else. It’s how kids are.

In the back of my head, I feel a fuzzy image of my dream: the Property Brothers giving me an exam on architecture in my classroom, except for every question I get wrong, they rip off a motivational poster or ram a stapler into the wall. By the end, my classroom is barely recognizable.

I shake my head and turn off the screen, telling myself that this will be the last time I watch a show while grading, but I know I am just lying to myself. Time grading in front of the TV is the only moment I have fake relaxation. The only time I can convince myself I like this job as much as I did when I started.

It’s gotten dark, so I reach over to the lamp by the couch and flick it on. That’s when I notice, on top of my stack of done tests, one that has my name on it. I drop the pen in my hand in shock. Then shake my head and back up until I hit the lamp. It falls over and the plug yanks out, covering the room in darkness.

I blink a couple times, take a few deep breaths, and plug the lamp back in.

The test is still there, my name staring at me from the shadows that surround it. 

I flip it over and go to bed. I must still be dreaming.

#

The test is still there that morning, ink matching the pen that has rolled under the couch. I rub my head, pushing away dreams of pulling out the teeth of my students. 

But, after last night with the test, I want to be sure. So, I spend the morning searching for the teeth under the couch, pillows, and anywhere I can think of until I realize I’m running late and should’ve left five minutes ago.

Maybe I need to stay home to sort this out, but I can’t. I have sick days, but I have no time to write sub plans, nor deal with the chaos that always comes afterward when I learn my kids are inevitably the worst they’ve ever been with the sub. 

So, despite my better judgment, I grab my keys and head to school.

When I’m there, seven students tell me they lost a tooth last night, but the tooth itself disappeared so they have nothing to put under their pillow.

I let them draw paper smiles during morning announcements. It gives me time to stop my brain from spinning. Then, while they’re at recess, I frantically search my classroom for teeth.

Nothing.

#

“I’m worried about you, April,” Molly says after the kids leave for lunch and recess. She is my favorite person on our grade-level team, and I often find myself calling for her help when I have a particularly tough child. Every now and then I wonder if she’d ever want to do something outside of school, but finding the time for even just myself is hard enough.

When she’d called me, she laughed about how all my students lost their teeth on the same day and how we should make it a national holiday. I’d laughed with her so I didn’t have to think about how all my dreams had come true.

But when she actually sees me though, her entire demeanor changes. Not that she says anything until we are at least fifteen minutes into our independent work.

“I’m fine,” I respond. Still, I open each essay to check that there isn’t anything strange hidden beneath the staples. The dream connections are just coincidences. Nothing other than bad occurrences that happen to line up, at least that’s what I tell myself. 

In my five years of teaching, I’ve never written on a test without knowing, nor have I had a large group of my kids lose their teeth on the same day. 

Maybe I should tell the parents so that if anything else happens, they’re prepared.

I sigh and concentrate on filing. Me going crazy is one thing, but my kids’ parents knowing that I am crazy is an entirely different mess that I can’t deal with right now. 

“You’re fine? Really? Because I just watched you file all the math tests under ELA.”

I look down at the assignment, and sure enough, at the top is Topic 7: Fractions and Decimals. I put the papers down.

“Hey, Molly, do you ever, you know… do things from your dreams ever slip out?”

She laughs, her smile filling the room. “No, if it did, I’d have a million dollars, a wife, and my mom would come back from her grave to apologize to me.”

I bite my lip and look back at the tests. Molly sighs. She pats my shoulder and it doesn’t feel strange like it does when others do it. In fact, it feels reassuring.

Must be her teacher magic.  

“You know, you’re doing okay. It’s fine to take a break every now and then.”

I shake my head and continue filing, this time in the right section. “No, no. I don’t have time for that.”

“Then make time.” She leans back in her chair and stretches. We fall silent as we focus on our own grading and filing. And, just as I am about to ask her how she survives all this mess—not just the academic teaching, but the pressure of making sure she helps raise children that are kind and loving and open to more than the generation before them—, the lunch bell rings and thirty pairs of trampling feet start running toward my classroom. Molly gives me a hug and leaves.

She smells like lemons and peppermint. I try to keep the feeling in my room, but as soon as the kids open the door, it escapes.

#

That night at the pharmacy, I search for medications that provide a deep, dreamless sleep. I’m too tired to care which one, so I buy the brightly colored bottle with small print on the back. 

After dinner and some planning, I swallow two pills with a glass of water and get ready for bed. I try to think about only good things, and hope that the medicine does its magic instead of my dreams.

Instead, I have nightmares. And, when I wake up, they don’t stop.

“God, I’ve been worried. Where are you?” Molly says when I groggily answer my phone. I’m more tired than when I went to bed. Ten phone calls from the school pop up in my notifications from earlier in the day.

“In bed?” I say then look at the time. “Shit.” I slept through my alarms.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, Mrs. Sanchez is subbing.”

That, in some way, makes me more worried. Danielle Sanchez was always a little bit more of a dictator when it comes to subbing. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

“I’ll try to get there as soon as I—”

“I would stay home.”

I stop walking. Something about what she says sounds familiar. The nightmare is a little fuzzy, but I still remember important details. The dread, the fright, the feeling that my choices were being questioned. 

“It’s the parents,” she says. “They… just… maybe don’t check your email today. And know that I’m okay.”

She hangs up before I can ask anything else, ask if they’re doing what they did in my dreams.

I try not to check my email. Try to do everything else. 

I last about fifteen minutes.

Thousands of messages have flooded my inbox since I last checked it ten hours ago. Emails first from parents, then the principal. I feel sick to my stomach as I skim through message after message.

Ms. Springer, I’m writing to ask you who you love. We realize you are single, but with the recent events, we want to be sure that you will never engage in a romance with anyone other than a male…

Ms. Springer, last night my son was reading a book he said was recommended by you, but upon further investigation, I noticed the book has some horrendous content not suitable for third graders, such as relations between the same gender. I hope you know that by introducing my son to such topics you are forcing him to be…

Ms. Springer, I’m writing to inform you that I will be taking my daughter out of your classroom immediately, pending investigation. As part of the third-grade team, you are interacting with…

Dear Staff, I hope you are doing well in these pressing times. The admin team and I are doing everything we can to address the parental concerns that were brought up last night and this morning. The district will be having a meeting today and will inform you of any updates at the next staff meeting. Thank you for your consideration.

I put the phone down, run to the toilet, and throw up.

#

I call Molly twelve times before she picks up. By then I’m pacing while my head spirals. I dreamt this. I made this happen. I forced my nightmare into this world.

“April,” Molly says. She sounds tired, but relieved. If I timed it right, she just started her lunch break.

“I…” I don’t know what to say, once I start. Even apologizing wouldn’t solve anything, assuming she believes me in the first place. While improbable, crazy parents isn’t impossible. There are always HMPs to deal with, no matter how wonderful your class is.

“I know, I just, I checked the emails. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I ask. There is a pause where my brain imagines a parent has come in and is hurting her.

I try to shake away the image, to clear myself of the possibility so that it doesn’t happen in real life. I don’t know how far the magic goes, and if the coincidences are beyond just my dreams.

“No,” she says. “I’m about to have a mental breakdown. But I can’t do anything else, and I want to be a teacher, so here I am.”

“I know,” I say. She is the perfect teacher, the one that truly loves her work and wakes up excited to go help kids learn; the one with the motivational posters, the handmade organization system, and a bright smile.

And if I keep working with her, my brain will keep dreaming up worse and worse situations, even if I don’t want it to. Situations that will hurt her, and in turn hurt her kids and those around her. Situations that will give neither of us a good night’s rest.

And, more than anything at this point, I need a break.

“I think I’m going to quit,” I whisper to her. 

“No,” Molly says so quickly I’m not sure I heard her.

“What?”

“No. You deserve to be here. You can’t back down just because of some parents. There are always crazy ones and it’ll blow over. I know it.”

I don’t believe her. It only got worse in my dreams, ended in visions I never want to see in real life. “You’re an amazing teacher, Molly. I… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“But the kids deserve—”

“They deserve you. And, I know it doesn’t make sense, but to save them, I have to quit.”

The line is quiet other than Molly’s shaky breathing. 

“Okay,” she finally says with a sigh. The acknowledgment that she accepts my choices, just like how I accept hers. “I guess I’ll see you around then.” She hangs up.

I flop down on my bed, draft a quick message to the principal that I won’t be returning next year, and take a nap. 

And, for once, I don’t dream.

 

 

About the author: Camden Rose is a queer author who loves seeking out magic beneath the everyday world. She can often be found at the ocean's edge taking notes on the local mermaid population. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner, black cat, and collection of books and board games. You can find her on her website, Twitter/X, Bluesky, and Mastodon.

Endling by Eric Diekhans

From above, the world is Eden. Fence rows stretch straight as Ishmael’s arrows. Corn and bean fields stitch a Jacob’s Ladder quilt. A cloud of dust fine as what God molded into man rises behind a horse and buggy traversing a dirt road. 

As I bank the Curtiss over Horace Garrison’s farm, horses trot across a sun-baked field, disturbed by the roar of my engine. My hands squeeze the yoke as anger ruffles my feathers. My neighbor calls me boy to my face and worse behind my back, and lets his dogs chase Iris when she’s picking blackberries at the edge of our property. I suck in the hot wind caressing my face and focus on cottony clouds drifting above me. Up here I’m blessed with a view second only to  God’s, and no man can take that from me. 

          As I approach our farm, Iris watches me from the shade of our ramshackle barn, a tiny figure in brown overalls. Since her mother died, she’s been my compass through long years in the darkness of my soul.

I descend and the ground rushes under me. The airplane’s fragile wheels are about to touch the ground when Iris steps into the sun with a woman I’ve never seen before. I lose concentration as my eyes linger on this stranger who seems so out of place on our isolated scrap  of land. Forcing my attention back to the field, I’ve come in too fast and yank the yoke, tilting the biplane skyward. When I come around again, Iris has moved her hand to her heart. 

The Curtiss returns to earth with a jolt strong enough to rattle my teeth. I take my boot off  the throttle and roll to a stop. Iris and the visitor cross the field toward me. She’s half a head shorter than my daughter, who’s thirteen and tall for her age. The stranger’s skin is a pale cinnamon-rose and her light brown hair hangs long and loose, not in a bob like the ladies fancy these days. Her white dress clings to narrow hips. It’s hard to gauge her age or her people. She might be just shy of thirty and part Indian, or maybe not. 

I climb out of the pilot’s perch, peel off my goggles, and wipe the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief. I don’t talk much to women, except the church ladies with their prim and proper ways, and my heart beats faster than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. 

Iris gives me a hug and turns to the stranger. “This is Miss Martha. She’s come to see you.” 

I pull off my cap and nod but Martha’s deep, dark eyes make my mouth dry as dust. Iris jumps into the silence. “This is my papa, Ambrose Root.” 

“You can fly.” Martha’s voice is a warm, lilting updraft. 

Folks gape when they see a colored man defy gravity, but Martha’s casual tone makes my feat seem as common as dandelions. I glance at the Curtiss, my sweetheart. “Mr. Crenshaw, the man I bought her from, taught me.”

“You bought it from his widow,” Iris jabs. 

I flash her a sharp reprove. Mr. Crenshaw was a rich white man. I’m mechanically inclined and he hired me to help take care of the Curtiss and a Wright he bought out east. When  he crashed the Wright into a tree and broke his neck, his widow sold me the Curtiss for a song. She couldn’t stand the sight of it. 

Iris never forgave her. 

Martha steps up to the machine and strokes a delicate balloon-cloth-and-bamboo wing. She closes her eyes and her face softens as if she and the machine are having a pleasant conversation. “What’s her name?” 

I scratch my head. “I don’t recall that Mr. Crenshaw ever named her.” 

“Don’t even think about naming her after me,” Iris snaps. 

Martha turns back to me and smooths her dress with a delicate hand. “Flying is the closest we’ll get to heaven.” 

I smile awkward-like because that’s exactly how I feel. 

“I want to fly with you,” Martha says. 

I open my mouth to tell her how flying is dangerous and not for ladies. But before I can speak, Iris steps forward. “My papa charges two silver dollars for a ride.”

I take in Iris’s smug face. When I bought the airplane, I told her I was going to make money giving rides, but even my own daughter won’t venture up in the air with me. “I don’t have money.” Martha’s eyes meet mine with no hint of embarrassment.

Martha’s like no woman I’ve met. There’s a strange and alluring beauty to her that causes my heart to stray from its usual rhythm and my common sense to fly the coop. “I was thinking of  taking her up one more time before I put her to bed.” 

Iris snorts. “Who’s your next of kin, case I have to notify them?” she says to Martha.

“I’m all alone in the world.” Martha voice is finely etched with melancholy. A lump the size of a Spitzenburg apple catches in my throat. I turn my attention to the clouds drifting across a sharp July sun.

“Being up there makes you forget your troubles.”

“That’s why I’m here.” 

I fetch an extra pair of goggles from the barn while my mind searches for words of comfort I can offer her. But I sense that, like me, the vault of heaven is her consolation.  When I step outside again, Martha and Iris are talking low. I pause for a moment. Martha’s a wisp of a woman, nothing like my late Elizabeth, but I want to take her slender hand and get lost kissing her lips the color of ripe acorns. 

“I can’t stand here all day.” Iris’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. Her hands are on her hips and she’s got a look in her eye that could scare an old hound dog. I don’t blame her for hating the Curtiss. If anything happened to me, she’d likely end up in the colored orphanage, even though she’s smart and tough enough to run the farm on her own. 

I hold out the goggles to Martha but she shakes her head. “I don’t need them.”

“Lot of wind up there.” 

“I know.” Her lips turn up slightly, as if I was explaining that air’s for breathing. I slip the glasses into my overall pocket. The three of us turn the plane around so it faces westward toward the sun. I climb into the pilot’s seat and offer my rough paw to help Martha up to the passenger chair beside me. Her delicate fingers remind me of the spiderweb of control wires that stretch across the fuselage and wings. 

“I’ve got ham hocks simmering so you best not be long,” Iris calls to me. 

I flash her a grin and check the aileron, the stabilizer trim, and the canard. Iris slips on a  pair of ragged work gloves and walks slowly to the machine’s tail. She stands behind the pusher and turns the propeller slowly clockwise. 

“Propped,” Iris calls out. 

“Contact!” I reply. 

The airplane shakes as she gives the propeller a hard yank, once, twice, until the engine roars to life. She hurries out of the way. 

I blow her a kiss and press my boot to the throttle. As we bounce across the dirt, Martha’s hair blows wild and she pushes it from her face. We pick up speed and I pull back on the yoke. The ride immediately smooths as we take flight. 

The first time Mr. Crenshaw took off with me in the passenger seat, I prayed I wouldn’t lose my lunch. But as we gain altitude and land recedes, Martha’s face is calm, like we were taking a slow buggy ride. 

“How you doing?” I shout to Martha over the engine’s roar. 

She cocks her head and gazes at me sideways. My heart swells bigger than a hot air balloon at her gentle smile. “Thank you,” she replies. 

We soar above the trees bordering my land. A flock of starlings floats on the wind to our right. Martha watches them, her face awash in longing. I’m looking at her with the same desire. I nod toward the birds. “I wonder what they think, seeing us up here?”

“That you don’t belong.” 

I’m used to white folks judging a colored man with property and a good name. But I sense no rancor in Martha’s tone. I want to learn more about where she comes from and why she’s here. When we land, I’ll invite her to supper so Iris and me can get to know her better. 

A prickle of worry tickles the back of my neck to remind me I’m probably running low on fuel. I should turn back but I let this moment linger. I’m in no hurry to be anywhere but with this woman. 

Common sense finally prevails and I lean right to bank back to our farm. The weathered barn appears. Iris has returned to its shade. The Curtiss flirts with the ground before we touch Earth again. I jump out and offer Martha my hand. Our eyes meet as she steps to the earth. I open my mouth to extend a supper invitation but my words float away before I can catch them. 

“You going to stand there till midnight or help me roll your contraption into the barn?” Iris says as she strides toward us. 

“Sorry,” I say to Martha. “I’ll be right back.” 

She smiles demurely, and I hurry to one of the airplane’s wings. Iris pushes from the other side and together we roll the machine into its nest. 

“I’m going to invite Miss Martha to supper,” I tell Iris. 

She frowns but says nothing. I step back outside. The sun is settling toward the horizon. My eyes sweep the field and farmyard. 

Martha is gone. 

###

Iris places a bowl in front of me. I’ve got no appetite and listlessly stir the thick soup with my spoon. 

“She was a strange one,” Iris says as she settles across from me. Her dark, intelligent eyes remind me of her mother. 

I wrinkle my brow as my mind circles. “Where did she disappear to? It’s five miles to town and she didn’t have a horse or conveyance.” 

Iris balances ham and beans on her spoon. “It’s just as well she’s gone.” 

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” I ask, though I already know. Iris was six when her mama died. Elizabeth was practically a ghost by the end, swallowed by our big feather bed. It’s been just me and her since, and we’ve both gotten used to it. 

Iris takes her time chewing before she answers. “There’s a sadness about Martha, like she’s carrying the weight of the heavens on her shoulders.” 

I reach across our rough oak table and take Iris’s hand. “Maybe she’s lost someone like we did.” 

Iris focuses on her supper. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been through enough pain.” 

I break off a chunk of crusty bread from the loaf between us. She rarely speaks of it, but I know the same sorrow lies deep in Iris’s heart. “Pain is a part of living. The good Lord requires us to persevere.” 

### 

I don’t want to hold onto a hope that might never manifest so I bury myself in farm work  and tinker with the Curtiss’ engine. But my mind is continually pulled to Martha’s slim figure and dark eyes. I pause my work and look for her, not on the dirt road that fronts our farm, but in the sapphire sky because that’s where she seemed most at home. 

Two days later, a knock brings me to our front door. Martha’s face is indistinct through the screen and for a moment I believe she’s a beautiful dream. 

“I’ve come for another flight,” she says when I open the door. 

“I’ll get my hat and boots.” My feet seem to float over our hooked rug as I hurry to dress.

### 

The next weeks passed in a fog of delight and misery. Martha appeared every few days, always in the same white dress. Her sweet smile encouraged me to fly higher and farther than I’d ever dared. The Curtiss is a temperamental lady and something’s as likely to break as not.  Thankfully, Iris doesn’t know the risks I took. She grudgingly accepted Martha’s presence and her papa walking around in a sweet daze. 

As we floated above the earth, Martha’s words were few and laced with sadness and loss. She spoke of the earth’s beauty and the joy of being untethered from it. I feared to press her with questions and break my bubble of contentment. Her presence was enough to release joy that had been shackled for too long. 

### 

But now I stand before the closed barn door, unable to bear even looking at my Curtiss. It’s been twenty-three days since I last cherished Martha’s company. I ride into town and ask guarded questions of Mr. Evers, the white grocer, and my friend Ollie who works in the stockroom at the five-and-dime. Nobody’s laid eyes on her. When I return home, I sit on the front  porch whittling a stick as my mind chews on the mystery of Martha.

Iris cooks our meals and tends to the house and the chickens. She encourages me to take the Curtiss up, even offering to join me. Worry creases her brow when I shake my head. I know  she’s thinking I’m lost in that shadowed land again because I fear the same.

### 

One morning a few days shy of September I lead our old mare Gwen into the barn and am startled to find Martha standing next to the Curtiss, her perfect features alight in the gloom. “Martha!” I rush forward to embrace her but stop short. She’s thinner and paler, and her eyes have lost some of their intensity. 

She steps into the narrow slit of sunlight streaming into the barn and my heart takes flight. Gwen dips her head to accept Martha’s touch and I wish I was a horse. “I don’t have much time.” Her words are barely a whisper. 

Fear courses through me. “Are you ill? There’s a colored doctor in town. You don’t have to worry about the money.” 

Her eyes are fixed on the Curtiss and I’m not sure if she even heard me. “I want to fly your machine.” 

I shake my head. ”Flying an airplane isn’t for a lady or for anyone who ain’t a bit crazy.” Her face is set. “I was born to fly, not you, Ambrose Root. I want to take you somewhere.” 

I scratch my head. For the first time, I fear she might be off her trolley. “You know I’ll take you anywhere.” 

“You’ve given me something I thought I would never experience again. Please do this one last thing for me.”

I gaze at the dust-covered floor, unable to refuse this woman. Her fingers flit across the back of my hand. “Trust me.” 

My heart lurches like a slipped gear. “Just tell me what’s wrong.” 

Her eyes flash with dark intensity. “We used to be innumerable, turning the sky storm black. But now I’m the last and I need to do this for the others who are already gone.” I don’t understand her words but the disconsolateness in her voice causes tears to flow down my cheeks. I haven’t cried since my Elizabeth died. At this moment, I’d stop the world on its axis for Martha. 

Together we open the barn doors wide to embrace the glorious late summer morning and push the Curtiss into the sticky Ohio air. I don my goggles and Martha climbs into the pilot’s seat. I sit next to her and explain the throttle pedal, how the wheel controls pitch and yaw, and how to use the shoulder yoke to bank the airplane. 

She nods and asks no questions. Fear hangs tight in my gut as I climb out and walk to the back of the plane. Falling in love is one thing, but dying with this woman who’s got me spellbound isn’t how I want this story to end. But deep in my heart, I trust Martha. It’s the same blind faith that allowed me to climb into the Curtiss the first time I flew with Mr. Crenshaw. Something so heavy shouldn’t defy the gravity that holds us to this plain. Flying made me believe in miracles and Martha is nothing short of one. 

I turn the propeller a couple of revolutions then grip the blade above my head and rotate the prop until I feel compression. I reach up again to the highest blade as I shift my weight away from the arc of the prop. 

Then I mutter a brief prayer.

“Propped!” I shout. 

“Contact,” Martha calls back. 

I pull down hard. The engine never starts on the first try but this time it roars to life immediately. The airplane rolls forward and I run around the wing to jump into my seat. Martha offers me a contented smile that makes my heart soar. 

As the wheels lose contact with the ground, my fear falls away. Martha tilts the machine  upward, banking smoothly so we’re heading east towards a hazy horizon. We sail over Garrison’s farm but I don’t give him a second thought. It’s been a long time since I was this  happy, not since the day Iris was born. 

Martha flies over farms and roads I don’t recognize. I’ve never taken the Curtiss this far  from home and my palms are sticky with sweat. “We should turn around,” I say.

“We’re almost there.” 

We cross a meandering stream and thick woods. A lush green pasture lies beyond them.  Martha begins to descend. There’s no farm or house in sight, but I’m still nervous. “I don’t know if we should land here. We don’t know who this land belongs to.” 

“No creature owns the land or the sky, Ambrose. You should know that.” 

A red-and-white checked square jumps out against the bottle-green landscape. It’s a blanket spread in the middle of the field. A wicker basket waits at its center but there’s no picnickers nearby. 

I grip the sides of my seat. Take-offs and landings are the most dangerous moments of piloting an airplane. “Take her in gently. Pull back on the wheel as you let off on the throttle.”

“I know, Ambrose.”

Martha sets the airplane down zephyr-like and I laugh with joy and relief. “I couldn’t have made a better landing myself.” 

Martha gives me a sideways look with impenetrable eyes. “Let’s eat.” 

She takes my hand and tingles of heat lightning shoot through my body. Birds sing their joy in the bordering woods. I scan the field for picnickers. 

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Martha says. 

I scratch my head in confusion. “But how’d the basket get here, and how do you get out to our farm for that matter? I’ve never seen any conveyance bring you. You just show up like an angel.” 

She turns to me and touches my arm. “I can’t explain it, Ambrose. I’m surrounded by wire, but when I close my eyes, I can go anywhere I please.” 

“But where do you come from, and who’s keeping you prisoner?” 

She rises on tip-toes to press her lips to mine. Questions flee from my mind like flushed rabbits. Being with Martha is all that matters. 

She lowers herself onto the blanket and stretches her bare legs across it. I sit opposite as she pulls three cloth sacks from the basket. Opening the first, she shakes shelled beechnuts into her hand. She pops the seeds in her mouth and swallows them without chewing, then holds her open palm out to me. I nibble on the seeds and she watches with amusement as I enjoy their oily  texture. 

The other sacks hold thistle and sorghum. I try my best not to gag as I chew and swallow. This is the strangest picnic I’ve ever attended, but I’d rather be here with Martha than eating  pepperpot on Christmas Day.

“Martha, I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but I’m so blessed to have you here.” 

She offers a melancholy smile. “I knew a man who could fly would understand me better than the others. I’m sorry we have such a short time together.” 

I lean forward and grasp her hand. “If you’re sick, there’s got to be something I can do. Just tell me what ails you.” 

“You can’t take away my pain, but you can do one more thing for me.” 

My whole body courses with the desire to make things right for her. “Anything.”

Martha rises and turns her back to me, perching on two delicate bare feet. “Help me with these buttons, Ambrose. I’m not used to them.” 

I stand but my legs almost give way. “Martha, we don’t need to hurry things. Let’s get to know one another. I’ve never even had you to supper.” 

She turns again, her face set with determination. “It has to be now. There’s not much time left.” 

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t need to.” 

Despite my pounding heart and shaking fingers, I manage to release the long row of  buttons. When I’m finished, she faces me and drops the dress from her shoulders without a hint of modesty. She is completely naked. My heart and body are overwhelmed with love and desire. Her voice is an intoxicating whisper. “Get undressed, Ambrose. I need you.”

I’m in a strange dream where thought ceases and only senses remain. I lay next to her and when we kiss, the distant birds hush. I bury my face in the soft curve of her neck and breathe in the scent of oak moss and mast. Something tickles my nose and I brush away a feather. 

Afterward, we lay side-by-side on our backs, naked and unashamed. I close my eyes and a wood thrush’s melodious song rises from the woods. I’m shrouded in a wave of peace that I’ve only felt while airborne. 

I must have drifted off to sleep because when I awake, the birdsong has ceased and the  breeze has picked up, rustling the leaves. I reach for Martha but find only empty space. The surrounding meadow is empty. Only Martha’s white dress remains, a ghostly vestige draped across the blanket. 

Iris doesn’t appear when I land the airplane back at our farm. I find her at the kitchen  table, an untouched cup of coffee in front of her. I can’t explain to her what happened. I’m not sure myself. Instead of my heart rejoicing at the memory of our passion, it beats with a slow, mournful rhythm. 

### 

Each morning I perform the same evocation, rising early, pulling on my overalls, and walking out to wait in the middle of the field. I gaze up at the dawn-kissed sky, waiting for Martha’s return, but I sense the hopelessness of my yearning. Something precious has been sucked out through a hole in the world, and what has vanished can never be replaced. 

Ten days after I last saw Martha, Iris hitches Gwen to the wagon and rides into town for supplies. She returns late afternoon, her market basket on the seat beside her. A newspaper pokes out from between dried goods. She always brings one back to catch up on the outside world.

Iris climbs out of the wagon, brushes the dust from her skirt, and lifts the basket from the seat. I stand on the front porch but she doesn’t acknowledge me, as if her mind is far away. A bile of vague fear rises in my gut. My voice shakes as I ask, “Anything new in town?”  

Iris doesn’t speak as she passes me the newspaper. I unroll it and stare at the front page.

Last Passenger Pigeon Dies 

CINCINNATI, Sept. 2. – Martha, the last passenger pigeon, died yesterday at the  Cincinnati Zoo. She was 29 years old. The zoo had offered a $1,000 prize to anyone who could find a male to preserve the species. The carcass will be shipped to the Smithsonian  Institution in Washington. 

The North American passenger pigeon was once ubiquitous in our skies, with  flocks of thousands being observed overhead. They were slaughtered with ruthless thoughtlessness until they diminished and disappeared from our world. 

The newspaper slips from my hand. A breeze kicks up and scatters the pages across the dreary landscape. Neither of us attempts to chase them down. I collapse into the front porch rocker and don’t stir for a long time. 

The sky is the color of a ripe apricot when I finally rise and stumble toward the barn, my mind intent on what I must do. I yank the door open and the sunset illuminates the Curtiss  waiting patiently for me. I grasp the axe hanging from a hook on the barn wall. Only a few weeks ago, I sharpened it on my whetstone until the bit could split a blade of grass. I grasp it by its throat and approach my former love. I only wish I could destroy all the airplanes in this world  because no man deserves to fly.

As I raise the axe, my eyes are drawn to a small object in the pilot’s seat, wrapped in burlap. I drop the weapon and gingerly lift the bundle. My breathing ceases as I unwrap a pure white, elongated egg. 

I sense Iris standing behind me. Her eyes widen at the treasure cupped in my outstretched  hands. 

“One of the hen’s gone broody,” she says as she takes the egg. “I can slip it under her and we’ll see what hatches.”

 

 

About the author: My fiction has appeared in Etched Onyx, Jelly Bucket, and the collection Unforgettable (Walkabout Publishing), I received a BA in Comparative Literature from Indiana University and a MA in Film from Northwestern. I’m the recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Screenwriting.

Find Eric on his website, X, Threads, and Facebook.

Digital Ligatures by Lauren C. Teffeau

Had I known how excruciating it would be, I would have picked a different way to die. Regret swims in my stomach as flames lick down my neck.

“Miss? Miss?” The tech’s voice abrades my skin. Sand paper. Coarse grit. “We have to perform an emergency shutdown.”

The sidewalk cushions my back like cotton candy, warm and fragrant after baking in the afternoon sun. I open my mouth, but all I hear is whalesong.

“Blink if you understand.”

I try to force my eyelids to contract, but the tech’s greasy-gray face screws up in annoyance. There was another man here. Before... I still remember the green armband he wore as he reached for the housing behind my ear. A muted trumpet wails. Wait—

“Shit! We’re losing her.” Another voice kisses my ear like astringent. “Her dataport’s hashed, man. She’s lucky she still has all her brain function.”

Some metallic contraption looms over my face, beeping and whirring in time to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

“Won’t matter if we can’t get her vitals stabilized.”

Everything trembles. I remember the man with the green armband. I expected him. But not the pain.

“One. Two. Three.” Something buzzes in my chest like an old fluorescent light bulb. “Again!”

They told me how it would be. They told me. But they left out all the important parts. Probably because I wouldn’t have signed up for this if I knew dying was as close as you could get to the real thing.

###

Two Months Earlier

The penlight lances straight into my brain as the doc waves it back and forth. “And nothing’s been able to give you relief?”

I swipe at my watering eyes. “That’s why I’m here. The pain’s pretty constant at this point.”

“Hmm.” He trades the penlight for a diagnostic scanner and holds the contraption up to the back of my neck where my implant lurks. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with your dataport or configuration settings.”

He steps back and gives me a long look. “You haven’t tampered with any of the factory defaults, have you?”

“No, of course not.” Void my ThinkPro 3000’s warranty and risk scrambling my brain? No thanks.

“Have you tried reducing the amount of time you spend with your implant?”

My mouth purses. “I use it for work. I can’t just turn it off.” Besides, I’ve been using an implant of one kind or another since high school.

His eyes roll back into his head. An eyecast command, but I can’t tell if he’s reviewing my case history or simply synching with someone via his implant.

Finally, he returns to himself. He hands me a useless pamphlet on ‘tasking whiplash. I can tell he thinks it’s all in my head—and it is, that’s the problem. He gives me a prescription for painkillers. But they’ll make me sleepy, so I can’t use them when I’m working, which is when I need relief the most. What a waste of time.

I leave the doctor’s office and just start walking, the blocks melting away under my heels. Audio sales pitches drone out the urban symphony of exhaust, car horns, bus hydraulics, and people’s voices. God, I hate whoever invented ambush marketing.

Overwhelming my implant’s proximity feeds, blips of light converge at the subway station in a seizure-inducing mass—the implant signals of the other commuters as they crowd around me. A dull ache builds in my temples—my mind’s warning that there’s too much, too fast. I can only shield myself from so much with the Thought Processor. But by the time the fatigue of tuning everything out starts getting to me, my train arrives.

I grab a seat and nearly give in to the urge to rip the damn thing out. It’s nothing new. My brain is ready to explode at the end of every workday with the onslaught of interoffice memos and messages, from clients and colleagues alike. Even with filters and subroutines to manage the communication barrage, I’m still overwhelmed. I do as much as I can at my workstation at home, but that only provides temporary relief.

Most nights as I’m shuttled back to my apartment, I put the device on standby and take the trusty old touch screen out of my purse and read. It’s distinctly lo-fi, but the iron clamp around my head lessens ever so slightly.

On the ride home, one knot of schoolgirls laughs in unison, making faces at one another, as they synch quietly together. I see one of them, tall and cocky, pointing not so discreetly to a young woman a few rows up, her face drooping with Down’s syndrome. An elderly gentleman, probably her caregiver, glares at the other girls but otherwise just sits there, a constipated look on his face.

Neither have implants. Disconnecteds? It’s kind of a novelty to see them out in the wild.

The car fills with piercing laughter, then silence once more. The girls get off at the mall.

I’m one of the few people still on the train as we head further away from the city. Across from me is a vaguely young man in a business suit—the only person for rows. His eyes roll back into his head, and he starts making chaotic gestures with his hands. His mouth slack, his trousers tented.

No. I turn away and try to find the place where I left off in my book, but I can hear him. Awful little noises he makes in the back of his throat. This can’t be happening.

He jerks spastically in the periphery of my vision, mewling like a tomcat. He stumbles off the train at the next station.

He never even saw me.

###

A few weeks later, I find myself in a nearly identical doctor’s office across town. I drum my fingers on my knee. Twenty minutes past my scheduled appointment time. I begged to be squeezed in for a second opinion, but still.

The dated waiting room makes everything worse. A stack of yellowed magazines sits on a nearby table. They might be artifacts of the previous decade, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to touch them.

Others wait along with me. An elderly couple. A young mom trying to convince her kid to take a nap. A man in his late thirties paging through a magazine. His eyes meet mine for a second before sliding away—but not as a result of an eyecast command—this is entirely voluntary. Weird.

I tap my knee again as another person who isn’t me is called back. The man’s gaze lands on me again. He’s a big guy, all legs and arms crammed into the teeny chair caddy corner from mine, with graying temples. I give him a benign smile to be polite, but he latches on. “What are you in for?”

“Headaches.” I point to the housing behind my ear.

“That’s too bad.”

I shrug. What do I say to that?

“You could always unplug.”

I laugh. It sounds harsh in my ears. Abrasive, like steel wool. “Not an option.”

He leans forward in his seat. A green bracelet slides out from under his shirtsleeve. “Why? Business or pleasure?”

I resist rolling my eyes. “Required at work.”

He gives me a thoughtful look. “A shame, that.”

“That’s why I’m here. For something to help me get by. What about you?”

He points vaguely toward the hall leading to the examination rooms. “My father’s getting a check-up.”

I nod, pretending I care.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but a nurse bustles in, brandishing a clipboard.

“Conway, Cassandra?”

Finally. I stand up and the man stands as well out of some misplaced sense of chivalry that went out of vogue decades ago. Just like the magazine he’s reading.

In his haste, he knocks my purse to the floor along with his copy of National Geographic. Our heads bump as I kneel down to collect my things. He pushes a card into my hand and whispers, “Just in case you can’t find the answers here.”

I step away from him as if burned, the card weighing down my hand. I hurry over to the nurse, who blinks at me blearily—must have been synching while she waited. “Follow me.”

###

The card says “Answers, Always” and gives an address for a community center in Midtown. It’s a run-down building with the institutional look of an abandoned school. I sit at the sushi bar across the street and debate whether I’m going to go in. The doctor’s appointment was a bust, and I’m running out of ideas.

At 2pm, someone sets up a sign outside the front door: “A.A. Meeting in the Conference Room.”

Answers, Always. A.A. Ingenious, really. But to the casual passersby, it’s just another Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. What have I stumbled into?

I pay my bill and cross the street. I’ve drunk enough green tea to give me the shakes. I should just go home, but I walk into the lobby anyway and follow signage to the conference room.

A man with a clipboard stops me when I round the last corner. He’s wearing a Che graphic tee. A grad student? An idealist fresh from the Peace Corps? “Name?” he asks, his pen at the ready.

“I thought we’re all anonymous here.”

“Cute.” He thrusts the clipboard into my hands. It’s a brief questionnaire. Name; occupation; issues for Answers, Always.

“I’m not filling this out.”

The guy rolls his eyes and snatches back the clipboard. There’s a pale patch of skin on the back of his neck where his implant used to be. He points to a row of chairs lined up against the wall. “Wait here until you’re called by one of our counselors.”

Counselors? What is this, therapy? Still, I take a seat. The guy ignores me and fidgets with the green bracelet around his wrist.

“Miss?” A woman is suddenly in front of me, with fat streaks of iron gray hair on either side of her head. Her reading glasses, attached to a cord on her neck, magnify her eyes. I wonder why she never got the surgery. “Right this way.”

The conference room’s arranged into a dozen or so cubicles with curtained entrances. A cross between a voting booth and a fortuneteller’s tent. But inside, there’s no crystal ball or voting machine—just a table and two chairs.

Ironsides holds out one of them, and I sit, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

“Before we get started, I have to ask that you turn off your Thought Processor.”

“It already is.”

She nods, unsurprised. “Then what can we do for you?”

“I’m not sure. What kinds of things do you, you know, do?”

“If you’re here, it’s because one of our operatives thought we could help you.” The word operative brings to mind covert machinations and conspiracies. I don’t like it. Ironsides keeps speaking. “So why don’t we start there. Where were you contacted?”

“A doctor’s waiting room.”

“And why were you there?”

I sigh. The room feels more like a confessional. “I’ve been having headaches.” Ironsides leans forward in her seat. Silent, encouraging. “From my Thought Processor.”

She leans back, all business once more. “And no one’s been able to tell you why.”

I nod. “Thought Processors are also required for my work.”

“Compounding your symptoms.”

“Yes. How did—”

“You aren’t the only one experiencing difficulties using the Thought Processor for long periods of time. The manufacturer denies it, but the implants are not designed for near-constant use. Nor have they been entirely forthcoming with just how the device interfaces with people’s brains, making diagnosing problems like yours difficult.”

I must look a bit lost because she reaches over and pats my hand.

“We are in the process of putting together a class-action lawsuit against the manufacturer and can provide you with resources if you decide to fight your company’s policy regarding the Thought Processor,” she says. “We’re working with a lawyer who has a strong track record advocating for Amish rights,” she says.

Lawsuit? That’s not what I came here for. I like my job. I shake my head. “I’m not interested in suing.”

The woman’s face falls in disappointment. “Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can—”

“Wait. What about, I don’t know, a medical dispensation or something?”

She folds her hands in front of her. “There’s no…legal way to secure you a dispensation if your current providers can find no cause.”

I sag back into my chair. So much for answers.

###

Outside, I pop a pain pill and brace myself as I activate my implant. I can feel each of my synapses fire, static-y sparks that pulse behind my forehead and along the base of my skull as all the work stuff I’ve been putting off rears its head. Along with increasingly frantic messages from my boss to confirm I’m actually going to have my latest assignment ready by tomorrow.

Someone knocks into me from behind. No signals in my proximity feed.

“Jeez…”

I turn around and see the guy from the doctor’s office. He raises his hands in a placating gesture, his bracelet just hovering outside his cuff.

“Have you been following me?” My voice is shrapnel in my ears.

“I’ve been assigned to you. To see if you change your mind.”

Another shooting pain runs through my temples, and I wince.

“You okay?”

“No, I’m not,” I say through my teeth.

“Come on, there’s a coffee shop around the corner.” Despite the pain, I use my implant to access a map of the city to confirm his words. “Bright lights, other people… Better than a secluded sidewalk with a stranger, right?” He smiles, the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes contracting. For some reason, that sets me at ease.

When I don’t respond, he takes that as answer enough and steers me toward the café. He orders me a decaf mocha and leads me to a table where he can see the entrance. He takes a sip of his black coffee and looks me over, his brown eyes assessing this time. “Let me guess. You’ve been having problems with your implant, and no one’s been able to help you.”

I mash my lips together, then finally nod. “Headaches. Bad ones. The doctors say there’s nothing wrong, but—”

He laughs, hollow and bitter. “But there is.” He gives me another long look and pushes back the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck where his implant used to be. But unlike the guy with the clipboard at A.A., ridges of scar tissue mark where his Thought Processor once was.

My alarm must be written all over my face for he grabs my hand and places my fingers on the ridges.

“It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore, I promise.”

###

He goes by Grady.

When the university he worked at created a virtual campus and sold the real one to a real estate developer, when his tenure case fell through because of his criticism against the move to online-only education, that was the beginning of the end. “The headaches just made my decision easier,” he says.

I take another pain pill with the last swallow of my drink and try to ignore the sympathetic look in his eyes. “How did you get involved in A.A.?”

He lifts his shoulders. “Didn’t want what happened to me happen to someone else.”

I tell him about my meeting with Ironsides, about work. About how I don’t know what to do. I’m babbling, but can’t find it in me to stop talking, not with the drugged haze that curls around me like a cat.

“What’s so wrong about disconnecting?” he asks when I lose steam.

I just stare at him.

“Right.” He sighs. “But think about your quality of life. Without your Thought Processor, the digital ligatures chaining you to society, you’ll see things differently. I guarantee it. I’ve found it surprisingly liberating.”

“But the world runs on implants. To give that up?” I shake my head, then stiffen at the resulting wave of pain. “Look, I appreciate what you guys are doing with A. A., I do. But I can’t just disconnect. I’d lose my job for one, my friends, everything.”

“What if we could give you an excuse to stay disconnected? One no one will question?”

“Ironsides already told me you couldn’t get me a medical dispensation.”

“Officially, that’s true. But there are other ways…”

“Really?”

He nods. “But you need to be absolutely sure it’s what you want.” Grady swirls what little liquid remains in his mug and stands. “Well, you must be exhausted after today,” he says with a sheepish grin.

Afternoon turned into evening while we were in the café, so I let him walk me back to the subway. He gives me his number and a complicated series of instructions for how to leave a message if I decide this is how I want to proceed.

“Think it over.” He gestures to his scarred neck. “There’s no coming back from this.”

###

I thought it over. For two whole weeks I negotiated the headaches and tried to keep the rest of my life from falling apart. I did it, but it took the rest of my prescription pain pills. When they ran out, so did my resolve.

It took some doing to find a working pay phone. Then almost an hour before Grady called me back on the contraption. “I got your message. Sorry it took me so long. I had…things to take care of.”

“It needs to come out. It needs to come out right now!” I turned my implant off hours ago, and my head still aches. Pain when I turn my head. Pain when I blink my eyes. Pain if there’s a loud noise or a bright light or a strong odor.

Pain when I try to think what to do.

“I understand. We can make that happen.”

“How?”

“The less you know, the better. I’ll handle everything.” His voice is soothing, even though the fidelity of the connection leaves something to be desired. “Cassie, go back to your apartment and get some rest. Tomorrow, if it’s not better, if things get to be too much, I want you to go for a walk.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. We’ll take care of the rest. I promise.”

###

The next day, I pick a direction and walk just like Grady said to. I’m not sure how long I wander. I find myself in a section of town I’ve never been to before, buildings closely tucked together and rundown. Footfalls follow me, heavy and insistent.

I don’t turn around. Instead I try to catch glimpse of whoever is behind me in one of the grimy windows. Three men. Rough looking in baggy, nondescript clothing.

My muscles tense as I scan the block for help, but it’s empty. I walk faster, adrenaline fighting through my medication. If they follow me around the next block, I’ll run.

Their steps speed up to match mine.

I dart around the corner and slam into a hard chest. A man sneers down at me, and the other three close in.

Before I can scream, one of them covers my mouth, anchoring me to the front of his body. My breath sputters in my windpipe. Someone gives my Thought Processor a hard flick, the tinny sound reverberating through my neck.

“Today, you die.”

I struggle but the hand over my face clamps down harder, jostling the green bracelet tucked into the man’s shirtsleeve into view. I start to relax. Grady said—

Then pain rips down my spine.

###

The detective crosses his arms and leans back against the observation window. “And then what happened, Ms. Conway?”

I blow my bangs out of my face. “I told you. I woke up in the hospital and filed a police report.”

The detective’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he synchs with one of his colleagues. But even with his implant, there’s only so many ways he can reword his questions.

He walks back to the table and picks up his touch screen. He queues up the report and sets it down in front of me. “This report?”

I scan the form and nod. “Yes.”

He snatches back the screen. “Says here you were mugged.”

“Well, what else would you call it? They were after my Thought Processor.”

“The ThinkPro 3000 has been a major commodity on the black market. But to actually attack someone to get one? That’s pretty rare.”

I plunk my elbows on the table. “Well, lucky me.”

“Let’s review your day.”

“Again?”

I expect a retort of some kind, but his eyes are roving again, unfocused, conspiring with his colleagues.

“According to your report, you took a walk and somehow you found yourself in a not-so- nice part of town.” He searches my face.

“Yes. I’ve been pretty stressed at work lately, and just lost track of where I was, you know?”

“When we cross-reference the time with your Thought Processor usage, your implant was in standby.” He approaches the table and leans down. “I find it hard to believe that you could be so oblivious to where you were, especially considering you weren’t using your implant.”

I shrug. “Like I said, things have been stressful. If I kept my implant on, I would have been inundated with all the work stuff I was trying to get away from.”

“But by all accounts, your performance at the consulting firm has been exemplary.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s still not stressful.” I shake my head. “What are you implying anyway? I thought you brought me down here to help with—”

“We’re just trying to get the whole picture.”

I glance at the time display projected onto the wall. “I would think after an hour you would have succeeded.”

He’s silent again, his mouth shaping words, as he consults with the hive mind. Finally, he looks back up at me. “Your attackers were very sophisticated, targeting you in an area where street cameras didn’t cover. We’ve since fixed that, so please know that something positive has come out of your ordeal.”

“Gee, thanks.” I reach for the tepid glass of water that was provided when I arrived.

“Do you have any enemies, Ms. Conway?”

I nearly snort water out my nose. “Enemies? Not that I know of. You don’t think…”

“It’s just that the injuries you sustained…” He gestures to the bandages that still cover the hole behind my ear. “Losing your ability to use implants, to connect with your friends, with society… It’s a cruel fate in this day and age.”

I don’t trust my self to answer and take another sip of water.

He stares at me for a long moment. Then with an eyecast command, he pulls up a mug shot of a young man. “Do you recognize him?”

“No. Should I? Do you think he was one of the men who attacked me?”

He blinks and a new mug shot is displayed. “How about this one?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“This one?”

The next image squeezes the air out of my lungs. He’s younger, without the crinkles around his eyes, the gray along his temples, or the hard line to his mouth. But it’s him. Grady.

“Take your time.”

I exhale slowly. “I think I recognize him.” Can’t risk lying, not with however many people watching us from the observation room or through the detective’s broadcast function on his implant.

“You think?” the detective prompts.

“Hard to say.” I squint at the image. “He was older.”

The detective pushes off the wall. “This was taken ten years ago. Spencer Gradin, a disgraced professor and activist.”

I wonder what Grady had done to get arrested, then shut down that unhelpful line of thinking. “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t one of the men in the alley, but I recognize him from somewhere.”

“Are you sure? Mr. Gradin has been living off the grid for the last seven years.”

“Like I said, the man I met was older.” I shrug. “Maybe some bum off the street.”

Another mug shot replaces Grady’s. I shake my head. Then a series of more mug shots. I make noncommittal sounds. Ask the detective to go back a couple times.

“I’m sorry. I can’t be sure that any of them were in the alley.” My hand flutters over the bandages behind my ear. “My memories of that day are practically nonexistent.”

“We appreciate your efforts nonetheless, Ms. Conway. In the weeks leading up to the attack, you saw a doctor for headaches, is that correct?”

“Isn’t that private information?” The detective just raises his brows, waiting. I sigh. “That’s correct. The doctor assured me my implant’s configuration settings were in working order. Eventually I was put on a migraine medicine that made my symptoms…manageable.”

“Have you had headaches since your accident?” Before I can answer, he raises his hand. “Headaches like you were suffering from before, not as a result of your trauma.”

I shake my head. “But I’ve been on so many drugs that it’s hard to say.”

“Of course.”

He consults with his colleagues again—an extended conversation. His head makes small, involuntary movements as his eyelids flutter.

“Well, Ms. Conway, I want to thank you again for your cooperation today. What will you do now, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I haven’t really thought about it. I have a big report due for work next week, and then…”

“Without your implant, do you think you can still be effective in your job?”

“Of…of course.” I can still do all the same things I could do before… A new thought dowses me better than a bucket of cold water. “And if the consulting firm doesn’t think so, I’ll sue them for discrimination.”

A startled chuckle escapes the detective as he opens the door. I follow him back through the precinct—past screens and screens of realtime traffic cameras and satellite maps of downtown.

He leads me all the way outside. His consideration is overkill, but then he stops me with a hand on my elbow. He watches my face as he reaches behind his ear and switches off his own ThinkPro 3000. “You know what I think?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I think your headaches were tied to implant use. Faced with the runaround from the medical community, you decided it was easier to kill off your connected life than continue to limp along with headaches. How am I doing so far?”

“I have no idea—”

“Save it. You tell Grady that we’re watching. Tell him we’re fast approaching the time when disconnection will be illegal. A transparent society is a connected one. You tell him that.”

“I don’t—”

“Goodbye, Ms. Conway,” the detective says, flicking his implant back on.

I bite down on my tongue and incline my head. I retreat to the subway. I have my medical dispensation. I can continue to work, live my life as normally as I can.

Grady said that wouldn’t be enough one day. That one day the stigma of being disconnected would be too much. He said to find him then.

He said he’d be waiting.

 

 

About the author: Lauren C. Teffeau is the author of Implanted (Angry Robot), a cyberpunk/solarpunk adventure shortlisted for the 2019 Compton Crook award for best first SF/F/H novel. Her environmental fantasy novella A Hunger with No Name from University of Tampa Press releases Fall of 2024. Her short fiction has been published in a number of venues including DreamForge Magazine, The Dread Machine, the Bram Stoker Award-nominated Chromophobia: A Strangehouse Anthology by Women in Horror, and a trio of solarpunk anthologies from Android Press, World Weaver Press, and Zombies Need Brains. Please visit her website for more information or follow her on TwitterBluesky, or Instagram.

Vacation in the Shade by James E. Moore Jr.

All six eyes twinkling with anticipation, Aster hits the send key on his touch-pad, sending the weekly Interplanetary Observation Report to the Scientific Alliance. He spins his chair to face his work partner Sol.

“That’s it!” Aster crows. “I.O.R. 260 has been officially sent to our superiors. Doesn’t that make your fluids rush?”

“Frankly, no.” Sol doesn’t bother to look up from his micro-scanner. “I don't see why we’re being forced to take this time off when there’s work to do.”

Aster leaps up from his seat and rushes to Sol’s side at the analysis platform. A tap of Aster’s tendril on a control panel shuts down the scanner.

“I was in the middle of an analysis.” Sol complains.

“Exactly,” Aster says, “Work-time over, vacation-time start.”

“Okay, okay. It's vacation time. So, tell me about this fantastic once-in-a-lifetime travel spot you’ve been hinting about for a dozen rotations now.”

“Sure,” Aster says with a smirk. “Have a seat. This place is gonna blow your mind.”

Aster’s smile grows as his tendrils dance upon the control panel. The holographic projection system produces a basketball sized display of Aster’s dream vacation spot. Sol stares at the image of a planet pirouetting in mid-air.

Sol gasps. “You can not be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Aster counters. “What better place to visit than the planet we’ve been studying for the past five cycles?” 

Aster reaches out and stops the rotation of the image. He then grabs the image and pulls with two tentacles to enlarge it. 

“Sol,” he says with a flourish, “I give you planet 3R235, or what the inhabitants call Earth.”

Sol steps around the holographic image so that it hovers between him and Aster. “Insane. I always suspected you were mentally imbalanced, now I have proof.”

“Just hear me out and—”

“No,” Sol interrupts. “First, you hear me out. Set aside the fact that if we’re caught, we’ll be placed in prison. Based on everything you and I have heard from the Science Council, you’re talking about visiting a planet that’s socially, culturally and morally fractured. One hundred ninety-six governments, each with their own agenda, and all fighting each other.”

“Not all,” Aster says.

“Enough to be dangerous,” Sol retorts. “The natives disrespect, abuse, and enslave each other. Can you imagine what they’ll do if we’re discovered? You want to take that kind of a risk for a thrill? A good time?”

“There’s that,” Aster says, “but also...” He walks around the Earth image and gets close enough to Sol to whisper in his ear. “There's Fission Sand down there.”

Sol stares at Aster in disbelief. “How can—are you sure?”

Aster puts a tentacle around Sol’s shoulders and guides him to a lab stool as he continues to whisper. “Not only is it down there, they manufacture it, millions of pounds every year. They use it for fuel.”

Sol closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Help me out, I’m still learning their units. Define ‘millions of pounds.’”

Aster allows Sol to sit on the stool before answering. “In one year they could fill this observation station five thousand times.”

Aster spins Sol around on the stool to face the holographic model. Sol looks at the vision trying to take in the fantastic new information. Again, Aster is in Sol’s ear. “I have a plan. If…when it works, we’ll be set for the next 300 years. Permanent vacation.”

Sol pulls his gaze away from the holographic planet. “Okay, what’s the plan?”

***

“It’ll never work,” Sol shakes his head. “Too many things can go wrong.”

Sol and Aster stand upon the autowalk that leads to the other side of the space station. Their debate echos off the corridor walls. Usually dozens of scientists and technicians like themselves mill about, but the vacation break means only a skeleton crew maintains the station. There’s no worry about being overheard.

“There’s nothing to it,” Aster argues. “We go down, mix with the natives, find out where to buy what we want, and then come back here. Nothing could be easier.”

“We can’t just go down there,” Sol says. “I’ve seen pictures. We don’t look anything like—what do they call themselves?”

“Homo Sapiens, I think.”

“Okay, we don’t look like Homos,” Sol says. “How are we going to do business with them?”

“I told you, I have a plan. There’s an observation team scheduled to go and set up shop down there. We’re going to do it first, that’s all. The scientist in charge of essence transfers is going to help us blend in.”

“Essence transfer. New bodies then?” Sol asks.

“Yep, we’ll have total say on the design. Color, size, age...”

“I’ve never done anything like that before," Sol muses, "I don’t know.”

Aster places a tentacle on Sol’s shoulder. “It’ll be no problem. We just have to get back in the three day window, that’s all.”

“Do we at least have a sociological survey?” Sol asks.

“Well...”

“No survey?” Sol shouts.

“Calm down.” Aster musters his most soothing voice, “We have the preliminary survey. That’ll be good enough for what we want to do.”

“This plan of yours is sketchy. We’ve been studying the planet itself, not the people. You’re just guessing at how to go about this.”

“I know the people,” Aster counters. “I know there’s a vast variety of body types, so it’ll be easy to blend in. The darker skinned Homos outnumber the lighter ones, so we know what skin tone to use. I know the sub-society we’ll encounter honors males above the females and, most importantly, I know the population clusters that are near vast quantities of Fission Sand.”

“But—” Sol says.

“Listen, my friend,” Aster says. “We’ll never have another chance like this to gain a fortune. But I can’t do it without you. If you say no, we’ll forget about it. Are you in?”

Aster’s question comes as the autowalk comes to a halt near the Enhanced Bio-Lab. Aster looks at his friend expectantly.

“Alright,” Sol says. “I’m in.”

“Great,” Aster says with a smile, “let’s get ourselves a couple of bodies.”

***

Aster and Sol enter the Enhanced Bio-Lab the way one enters a church. The natural daylight bulbs used inside are a welcome change from the harsh lighting in the corridor. 

“I always wondered about this place,” Sol says in a normal tone.

“Shhh! We don’t want to disturb him,” Aster cautions.

Sol lowers his voice. “I thought we were expected. Disturb who?”

Aster whispers back, “We are expected, but that doesn’t mean Leo isn’t busy with some experiment right now.”

“Leo? That's an unusual name.”

“Yes.” Aster takes a seat in one of the stools. “He decided to change his name after a study of the planet’s history. The name comes from a historic figure he admires greatly. Leo Vinci or something like that. I just call him Leo.”

“Leo,” Sol muses as he sits on a stool, “So he’s the one who’s gonna get us set up with bodies for our trip?”

A voice booms out from a back room, “Indeed he is!”

Leo steps out into the warm light that mimics the sun of this system they've been observing. He looks over the two techs with piercing eyes. The bodysuit he wears has the emblem of a senior officer in the Science Council. Leo leans against the lab table closest to Aster.

“So,” Leo says to Aster, “you mean to go through with this?”

“Indeed we do!” Aster replies. “Let me introduce you—”

“You must be Sol.” Leo leans forward and extends a tendril. “Aster has told me a lot about you. And when he spoke, it was with reverence.”

Sol briefly entwines his tendril with Leo’s, as is customary. “That's good to hear, sir.”

“C’mon, just call me Leo. We’re business partners, after all.”

Sol gives Aster a sidelong glance. “Partners?”

“Of a sort,” Aster says. “Leo's doing a lot for us—new bodies, technical support, transportation. A twenty percent share in profits is not too much to ask.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Leo says, “because we can start right now. Ready?”

Aster and Sol exchange determined looks. “Ready,” they say in chorus.

“Very well.” Leo opens a lab table drawer and pulls out a remote control. A couple of buttons are pressed and a holographic form drops down from the ceiling as the lights dim. “Make wise choices, you’ll be stuck with these bodies for a couple of days.”

Aster and Sol have spent a few minutes working on the long list of aesthetic choices needed to get their bodies ready when an issue comes up.

“That’s the skin color you’re going to use?” Sol asks.

“Ah,” Aster says, “this is where the report comes in handy. I just happen to know that this skin color is one of the most popular on the planet.”

“Really?” Sol asks. “That color?”

“Well, shades of it,” Aster says. “You can go darker or lighter, but this is optimal. Where we’re going, the vast majority of the people have that shade.”

“We can’t look exactly the same though,” Sol says. “I’ll go a few shades darker. What else do you suggest?”

“Based on what we know,” Aster says, “we should look like we’re a little past the mid-point of their life-cycle in age. Most natives’ bodies have twenty-five to thirty percent extra fat...”

“What?” Sol asks, “Are they trying to kill themselves?”

“It would appear so,” Leo chimes in.

“Let's go with fifteen percent,” Aster decides.

“Okay,” Sol says. “Male or female?”

“Most definitely male,” Aster says. “We need to be taken seriously, and the society we’ll encounter sometimes treat their females badly. They talk a good game, but the truth is different. We don’t need extra complications.”

“Alright then,” Leo says. “Add some contemporary clothes, and you’re set.” Leo uses the remote to punch in the last of the settings and calculations. “Done. The transfer chambers are right through here.”

They enter the back room that Leo came out of before. He turns on the overhead light as they enter, revealing some of the most coveted high tech equipment in this space sector. Aster and Sol recognize sub-micron bio-scanners, tissue regenerators, and cloning kits. Leo opens the door at the other side of the room, and they enter an area with eight human-sized chambers. There are four open red chambers on the left and four closed blue chambers on the right. They are separated by a monitoring console and a bank of computing modules.

“Step into two of the chambers on the left,” Leo says, “and we can get started.”

“Hold it,” Sol says. “I want to know how this thing works first. I know it's been done before, but not to me.”

“Will you relax?” Aster says. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

“No, it's okay,” Leo says. “I’ll be happy to explain the process.”

Leo steps to the spot in front of the console and turns to face his audience. “The pods on your left are a combination stasis chamber, bio-scanner, and neuro-electric siphon. The pods on your right are a combination of bio-generation chamber and neuro-electric charge device.”

Leo takes a side step and pats one of the closed chambers. “Two of these babies are already working on the bodies you selected. In a couple of hours, I’ll be ready to put you in them.”

“Two hours?” Aster asks. “Why do we have to get into the chambers now?”

Leo steps back toward the open pods. “It'll take at least that long to safely remove your neuro energy for transfer. The entire process typically takes about four and a half hours.”

Aster turns to Sol, “Satisfied?”

“I just want to know what's going on, that's all,” Sol says.

“Your pods await, gentlemen,” Leo says.

Aster jumps into the nearest pod while Sol's entry is more deliberate. There's a hiss and a soft whine as the pod canopies close. Just before they snap shut, Leo says, “See you in a few hours.”

***

Five hours later, Leo punches in the final verification codes to make sure the neuro-electric transfer is complete.  A bank of lights on two pods go green as their canopies release with a loud click. A brown-skinned, dark-haired man in his late thirties steps out of one pod looking at his hands.

“Sol?” Leo asks.

The man continues to inspect his new body. Arms, chest, legs—all covered in a rich brown skin.

“Sol!”

The man snaps his head around and focuses two dark eyes on Leo. “Yeah, it's me. Wow, I feel... kind of numb.”

Leo walks over to Sol. “That's to be expected. Your nervous system is getting used to the influx of energy. Other than that, how do you like the new body?”

Sol takes another look at himself. “Ok, I guess. Of all the bodies I've ever used, this is definitely in the top two. Where's Aster?”

On cue, soft snoring comes from the pod next to Sol.

“Your clothes are in the other room,” Leo chuckles. “I’ll wake him up and send him in.”

A short time later, Leo, Sol, and Aster gather in the transport room. 

“I can’t get over this body,” Aster says, “but I think you could have given us more ideal specimens.”

“You don’t want that.” Leo remains focused on the transport panel as he cautions Aster. “Ideal specimens get attention. You want to avoid that, right?”

“Right,” Sol confirms. “We just want to look like two average Homo tourists.”

Leo stops his work and shoots an inquisitive look in Sol's direction. “What did you just say? Homo tourists?”

“Yes,” Aster says. “That's what the natives call themselves, Homo Sapiens.”

“Haha, not normally,” Leo says. “Do you have a local customs report on the area you're landing in?”

“No,” Sol looks at Aster. “Somebody didn't think it was necessary.”

“Let me tell you, the vast majority of the natives do not refer to themselves with scientific nomenclature. Plus, the word ‘Homo’ is an archaic derogatory term for males who are attracted to their own sex.”

“Oh,” Aster says.

“Is there a problem with that?” Sol asks.

“There could be,” Leo says, “if you refer to someone that way who isn’t. I’ve been studying their culture for a while now. Let me put some info together for you.”

“How long will that take?” Aster asks.

“I can have something comprehensive for your area in two or three hours.” 

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Aster says. “Just transport us, and we can get started.”

“I have to tell you about a couple of features of your bodies first.” Leo steps away from the transport panel and holds up a small bead between his fingers. “This is a signal enhancer. The transport unit here will be on auto-standby while you"re planet-side. Tap this twice, and the unit will lock on and bring you back immediately. Use it when you find the yellowcake.”

“Yellowcake?” Sol asks.

“That's what the Humans—that's the correct term, by the way—Human Beings, that's what they call the Fission Sand on their world.” Leo looks them over. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put together an info capsule for you?”

“No time,” Aster says. “Just give us the enhancer and send us down.”

“You already have the enhancer,” Leo says with a smile. “Each of you have one implanted under your skin. It's behind your right ear.”

Sol and Aster each check for the small bump under their skin that ensures a return trip. 

“Anything else we should know?” Sol asks.

“Yes, I’ve added a linguistic circuit to the enhancer. I know you’ve been studying the language, Aster, but for Sol's benefit I made this little addition. What you hear will be in our language, but when you speak, the locals will hear their language.”

“That’ll come in handy,” Sol says.

“If that's all,” Aster says, “we’re off to find our fortune.”

“What's your plan?” Leo asks. “You gonna walk up to the first stranger you see and ask where the yellowcake store is?”

“Maybe not that direct, but yes,” Aster says. “They produce so much of that stuff, they might even give free samples.”

“Sure,” Leo says. He walks back to the transport panel. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Aster and Sol say in chorus.

“I'll be sending you to the population cluster we discussed, Aster,” Leo says. “But it's an out of the way spot. No one should observe your arrival. See you in two rotations.”

The sensory experience of transport is something Aster and Sol have experienced many times. It is the safest way to travel, after all. The view of the transport room fades and appears to dissolve into the background. That image is replaced with a view of their destination: a small back alley in a large city located in a region called “The United States of America.” Aster and Sol take in their new surroundings.”

“What a filthy dump!” Sol says. “I hope the whole planet isn’t like this.”

“I'm sure it's not,” Aster reassures. “Let's find someone to talk to.”

His sentence is barely completed when a heavy metal door of the building behind them bursts open. Several men and two women frantically pour out of the open door and through the alley. They run past Sol and Aster without a second look.

“They look like us,” Sol says.

“I told you our shade is popular,” Aster says.

“STOP—federal officers!”

The voice from inside the building is followed by five uniformed men with heavy vests. Each one has a single word printer on the front and back: “ICE.” The lead man points to Aster and Sol.

“Wilson, Thomson! Grab those two; we’ll go after the others.”

One of the uniforms takes Aster's arm and pins it behind him.

“Hey!” Aster protests.

Sol takes a step to help Aster when the second uniform pulls out a weapon and points it at Sol.

“Stop! Don’t make me shoot you!”

Pointing a gun at someone is a universally understood act. Sol backs off. Aster is being placed in handcuffs.

“Why are you doing this?” Sol asks.

“It's not personal,” one of the uniforms says. “There's a push to round up illegals.”

“Illegals?” Aster manages to say while pressed against a wall. “We're human beings, just like you.”

The second uniform grabs Sol and pats him down before putting on the handcuffs. “That's true, but you’re also aliens.”

Aster and Sol exchange astonished looks. “How did they find out?” Aster asks.

***

The immigrant detention center overflows with Human Beings of all ages. A few seem to be alone, but most are huddled together as family units or groups of friends. Many of the children and some adults weep because their empty bellies are twisted with fear. Other than being branded with the title “Illegal Alien,” they all have one thing in common with Aster and Sol: dark skin color. Aster is one of the few solitary figures sitting alone at a cold aluminum table when Sol approaches.

          “Where have you been?” Aster asks.

“Scouting,” Sol says. He takes a seat opposite Aster and looks around. He speaks just above whispering to make sure their conversation is private. “I wanted to find out why we were captured.”

“Well?”

“To start,” Sol begins, “we should have taken Leo up on his offer. If I knew from the beginning what I know now, I would have never set foot on this planet.”

“Did you learn how we were discovered? I can’t believe so many aliens know about this planet.”

“That's just it,” Sol says. “You and I are the only real aliens here. Everyone else was captured because they come from a different country.”

Aster tilts his head. “What? Foreigners are called aliens?”

“Not all of them,” Sol says. “Just the ones who bypass the long and arduous process of entering this country lawfully.”

“Why would they bypass the process?”

Sol is silent for a moment. His voice cracks a little when he answers. “Some don’t want to wait in a line that's years long. Some come from deadly, dangerous places and want to survive. Most simply want a chance for a better life for themselves and their families. I had conversations with a number of Humans here, and the stories are similar. They’re running from despair and towards hope.”

Sol's words hang in the air. The table between them is an island in a sea of desperation.

“Their situation is bleak,” Aster says, “but we can’t do anything for them. We need to think about us. How are we going to get out of here and find some yellowcake?”

Sol's shoulders slump and his head hangs over the table. “I don’t think my heart is in this venture anymore. It all seems trivial considering what's going on around us.” Sol raises his head to make eye contact with Aster. “There's something else I’ve found out.”

“What's that?”

“Have you noticed?” Sol asks. “Every person in this detention center looks like us. Dark hair, brown eyes, brown skin.”

Aster shrugs. “Yeah, so?”

Sol leans in closer to Aster. “So think about all the other humans we’ve seen since we arrived. The officers who captured us, people posted at every door, the guards who surround us now. Almost all of them are a much lighter color, shades of pink. I think these people are being singled out because they’re brown.”

“Ridiculous! You can't make that assumption,” Aster says. “We’re in one small area of a large planet. It might not be like this everywhere.”

“It appears to be like that here, for these Humans around us. We can leave whenever we want, but what about them?”

Now it's Aster's turn to lean in. “I know you, I know what you're thinking. We are not supposed to interfere.”

“Unless it makes us wealthy, right?”

Aster opens his mouth to debate the issue, but Sol’s steady gaze makes him think better of it.

“Fine.” Aster leans back. “What do you want to do?”

Sol shrugs. “I don't know.”

“Hey, you two!” A uniformed man shouts to get Aster and Sol's attention. The broad-shouldered officer approaches the table, motioning for them to stand. “You guys are up next.”

Aster and Sol rise to stand next to the table. “Next for what?” Sol asks.

“You want to see your lawyer or not?” the guard replies gruffly.

“Lawyer?” Aster asks.

“Follow me,” says the guard.

Aster and Sol are lead through the detention area to a heavy steel door. The guard signals to his co-worker through a small window of bullet-proof glass, and the door swings open. A march down a narrow corridor and a short elevator ride bring them all to a small meeting room. The guard turns the knob and pushes the door open. “Wait in here.”

“Aster and Sol are left in the room for several minutes. In whispered communication, they debate whether they should activate their implants for a trip back home. Neither one has convinced the other when, without knock or warning, the door swings open.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A man in his mid-twenties enters and places a tattered leather briefcase on the table. “My name is Rick Hunter, and I’ll be representing you at your hearing tomorrow.” Rick looks as worn as his suit, which is saying a lot. The blue shade of the fabric varies on the surface of his jacket as he takes it off and places it on the back of a chair. 

“You two are an interesting case,” Rick says, rolling up his sleeves. “I understand no ID, but nobody knows you guys. None of the restaurant workers detained in the raid, no one in ICE, nobody in that neighborhood.”

“Well,” Aster says, “we just got here. We don’t know anybody.”

“Ok,” Rick says. “I’m guessing this is your first time through the process, so I’m going to explain what happens to you next.”

“Please,” Aster says.

Rick sits in a chair opposite Aster and Sol and points to them both. “You two were apprehended during an ICE raid on a restaurant known to employ illegal aliens. As far as we know, you have no ID, no employer, and you’ve yet to tell anyone your country of origin. With me so far?”

“So far,” Sol says.

“Tomorrow morning," Rick continues, "I have to convince a judge that there’s a good reason to allow you to stay in this country. There will be another lawyer in the room trying to convince the same judge that you need to be put on the next plane out of here.”

“Sounds like you have a tough job,” Aster says.

Rick throws a bewildered look at Aster. “Yeah, especially since I don’t know anything about my clients. Is there anything you guys can tell me to make my job and, as a result, your lives easier?”

Aster and Sol trade thoughtful looks. “Can we have a moment?” Sol asks.

Rick looks at his watch and then at his clients. “Alright, but I have six more clients, so five minutes and no more.” He packs up and leaves the real aliens to talk.

“We should leave right now,” Aster says.

“We can’t just disappear. Besides, there’s something I need to do first.”

“There’s nothing for us here,” Aster retorts. “Our plan is a bust and the situation here is not going to change, no matter what we do.”

“I have to try,” Sol says. “What if some things work the same here as in our society? We get to speak to a JUDGE, Aster. Someone who can make a difference.”

“What if that's not the case?” Aster says. “What if the judge can’t change the laws, or what if the judge doesn’t see things your way?”

“In that case,” Sol says, “we make the return trip, but at least I will have tried.”

***

The next day, fortune favors Aster and Sol, because their case is the first to be heard by The Honorable Harriet Barker. Her first cases of the day have the best chance of being heard with empathy. As the day goes on, however, a heavy docket and the stress of affecting dozens of lives a day can deplete the mercy well. The judge takes her seat and looks doubtfully at two men sitting behind the defendant’s table.

“Neither one of you looks like a lawyer to me,” she says. “Where is your council?”

“Excuse me, your honor,” Sol says. “We'll be representing ourselves.”

“Oh, you will?” the judge retorts. “Let’s see, on the docket...Aster and Sol Lopez?”

“That's right, your honor,” Sol answers. “From what we understand, this is our opportunity to tell our story. Is that true?”

No lawyer, no ID, and the defendants want to tell a bedtime story to win their case. The judge knows these guys are destined for a plane ride out of the country. Sometimes though, a hopeless argument needs to be heard.

“Mister Sol Lopez,” the judge says, “tell your story.”

Sol stands and places his hands behind his back to take his presentation stance. “Your honor, my story is the same as many of the people you’ll see today. A story rarely told to anyone who cares and has the power to help.

I’m a Human Being. No different than anyone in this room, or anyone on this planet. We have much in common. I want my life to have meaning. I want to contribute to society. I don't want to take advantage; I want to honor the opportunities available here by creating more opportunities. 

It took Aster and I five years to get here. The road has been paved by dedication, life-threatening risk, and hard work. My story is not uncommon. There are thousands and thousands of people like me. If you give us the chance to stay and prove ourselves, you’ll see we're not a burden, but a blessing. I ask not just for myself but all the Human Beings who want to bless this place, let us stay and prove ourselves.”

Sol sits down and silence envelops the room. 

“Mister Lopez,” Judge Barker says, “I have heard your story before, and I believe the truth in it. But laws must be enforced. Petition denied.”

***

Aster and Sol sit in the transport room, back in their natural bodies and using time for reflection upon their vacation. For most, the goal is to make memories. They succeeded.

“Think you made a difference?” Aster asks.

“With things like that,” Sol says, “you can’t tell right away. Time will tell.”

“Well, we didn’t get wealthy,” Aster says, “but we did get arrested. That will be a story worth telling someday.”

Leo comes into the room. “I’ve disposed of the bodies,” he says. “Was the trip worth it?”

“Probably not,” Aster says. “No yellowcake and no justice. Let me tell you what happened.”

“I can guess a lot of it,” Leo says. “Your antics are what they call ‘trending’ on the planet’s information network.”

“Antics?” Sol asks. “Only a small number of humans even know what happened.”

“More know than you think,” Leo says. “Apparently in the United States of America, when detained illegal aliens disappear from holding, it makes the news. They’re even replaying your speech.”

“That was documented?” Sol asks.

Leo nods. “It’s being played over and over planet-wide.”

“Wow,” Aster says to Sol. “The whole planet knows you.”

“If I know humans,” Leo says, “the excitement will die out eventually, but in the meantime, who knows? You can always hope.”

“That's right,” Sol says. “You can always hope.”

 

 


About the author: James Moore is a husband, father, grandfather and oh yes, a writer. Even though James is a relative newcomer to the literary world, he has written dozens of screenplays and short stories. Currently he is working on several projects, including a feature length movie screenplay Kiki Diamond: Bounty Hunter and the screenplay adaptation of HOM, a novella scheduled for publication later this year.

James types out his inspiration at a small black desk in Virginia Beach, VA, with the love and support of his wife Donna.

To see more of James’ work, check out his novella HOM, his screenwriting, and his podcast.

Granarchy by Darcy L. Wood

People would say that Lynne had fallen in with the wrong crowd. That excuse worked for adolescents, but Lynne was 65 and a retired headmistress. Her appearance reflected her past profession: practical heels, a skirt with the hem below the knee and her ashen hair pulled into a severe bun. Both of her children were grown up and her husband was a retired dentist. Yet, Lynne was led astray by the thrill of rule-breaking for the first time in her stringent life.

“You all right, Love?” John’s voice penetrated Lynne’s thoughts as she stirred bolognaise sauce in the pan.

“Hmm? Oh yes, fine.” She smiled.

“You’ve been quiet ever since that W.I. meeting,” said her husband. “It’s good you’re finally making friends with local women. After all, we’ve been here for half a year now.”

“Mmm hmm.”

Lynne cast her mind back to two days earlier, when Pankhurst village held the Women’s Institute meeting. Ladies a decade older than Lynne made up most of the assembly. Nonetheless, she sat through lectures on the best practice of button organisation and how to pipe the perfect rose. Most of the women knew each other, and Lynne felt like an outsider.

She left the meeting having resolved that the local chapter of the W.I. was not for her. Lynne had spent too many years on committees and was determined to avoid such commitments in retirement. This was her and John’s time to enjoy themselves.

***

It was November and already dark by 5pm when the meeting for the W.I. finished. Lynne was in the entranceway to the village hall. Almost everyone else had gone.

“Pssst.”

Lynne searched for the source of the noise.

“Over here.”

Lynne squinted down the side of the pebbledash building. There was a tiny blue light and the smell of cherries wafted through the air.

“Hello?” said Lynne.

Aggie, the 97-year-old head of Pankhurst’s W.I. chapter, exited the village hall. Her giant set of keys jingled as she locked the door. She was small, round and vole-like.

“Ah, Lynne, I trust you’ll be attending the next meeting in a few weeks?” Aggie said. “It’ll be nice to have a respectable woman as part of our organization.”

Tittering emanated from the vicinity of the mysterious voice and the tiny blue light.

Aggie sniffed the air and scowled. “Don’t fall in with the ne’er-do-wells of this village,” she said before departing, leaving Lynne confused.

“Hey,” someone whispered, hidden by the gloom alongside the building. “Mrs Prim, come over here.”

During her years of headmistressing, students and parents had thrown many such names in Lynne’s direction. She was aware that she came across as strait-laced. However, she was certain this was a teenager goading her.

A concrete path led around the side of the village hall. Lynne followed it, heading towards the tiny blue light. “Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”

The bright white light of a mobile phone flicked on and illuminated four crinkled faces.

“Did you enjoy Angry Aggie’s meeting for the W.I.?” said a small woman, roughly Lynne’s age, with cropped blue hair.

Lynne sensed the question was charged and that the little woman with blue hair was the quartet’s ringleader.

“It was fine,” said Lynne, refusing to be coerced or intimidated.

A tall woman, built like a wilting French bean, let out a giggle. Thick fog poured from her nose and smelled like cherries. Lynne realised this woman smoked a vaporizer cigarette, the source of the blue light and the pleasant smell.

“They call me Dragon,” said the tall woman. “Because I vape—it makes me look like I could breathe fire.”

“She gets it,” snapped the blue-haired woman. “And they call me Dom.”

Lynne frowned. “As in Dominatrix?”

Dragon stifled a smoky giggle.

“As in Domestos,” said the third woman. She was non-descript except for her Barry Manilow schnozzle. “Domestos on account of her hair being the same shade as the toilet bleach.”

They all laughed.

Dom looked peeved. “It’s short for Dominator.”

“And they call me The—”

“Let me guess,” Lynne interrupted, “they call you... The Nose?”

The women stopped smiling and glared at Lynne frostily.

“Sorry,” blurted Lynne. “It’s just you all had self-deprecating nicknames, but affectionate, and I thought—. I’m so sorry.”

The four women burst out laughing again.

“That’s exactly what they call me, The Nose,” said the woman with the nose.

Lynne cast her eyes to the last lady of the bunch, the youngest and quietest, who had milk-chocolate skin contrasting her pearly teeth and braided black hair.

“They call me Cleo,” said the fourth woman with a hint of a Caribbean accent. “It’s short for Cleopatra.”

“Our nicknames make us feel empowered. Dom, Dragon, Cleo and The Nose,” explained Dom.

“The night we came up with the names we drank a little too much prosecco,” added The Nose with a grin.

“I like it,” said Lynne. “But what are you doing hiding around here?”

“We’re not hiding,'“ said Dragon. “This is reconnaissance and recruitment.” She looked offended as she took a pull on her vaporizer.

“Reconnaissance and recruitment for what?” Lynne was confused.

The quartet of misfits nodded to each other.

“If you want to know more, meet us in the dining room of The Dick Turpin Inn. Be there in an hour,” said Dom.

The four women departed, leaving Lynne alone and bemused.

***

In hindsight, Lynne thought she should have stayed clear of the four odd ladies. Curiosity had gotten the better of her.

“Would you like more wine?” John asked, again cutting into Lynne’s reverie.

She nodded.

“You’re quiet this evening,” he commented a second time.

“I know,” Lynne answered. “Sorry. Tell me about your day.”

John smiled and talked about the golf game he had won that afternoon. Lynne loved John. They had been married for 40 years, but his newfound interest in golf — and talking about it at length — was, in teenage parlance, a yawnfest. Again, while nodding and smiling in the right places at her husband’s heroic golf tale, Lynne thought back to the meeting at the Dick Turpin Inn.

***

The Dick Turpin Inn was one of Pankhurst’s two pubs. It was also the seedier of the two. Lynne entered the old place with its creaky wooden seats and a bar sticky with spilled IPA. The walls and low ceilings were off-white, sliced through with the occasional ancient black beam.

Lynne had told John she was meeting some friends at the pub after the W.I. meeting; he was delighted. Lynne suspected his delight was derived from being able to watch Gogglebox alone without her snide interruptions. She could not understand watching television to watch people watching television; John had told her she was a snob.

Lynne ordered a shandy and found the eccentric quartet of ladies in a shady alcove of the empty dining room. The fireplace was lit and the floorboards creaked beneath threadbare mats.

“Welcome,” said Dom. The other three women nodded. They were huddled around a small circular table in conspiratorial fashion. A single tea light made their wrinkles into deep crevices. Lynne sat in the empty chair. It groaned.

“You have to swear that you will revoke any affiliation to the Pankhurst W.I.,” said Dom.

The chorus nodded.

“Why do you think I’ll do that?” asked Lynne.

Because you fell asleep during the talk about icing roses,” said Dragon. “I was spying through the back window.”

Lynne blushed. '“Fair enough,” she said. “I revoke any affiliation with the Pankhurst W.I.” She hadn’t been intending to go to the next meeting anyway.

“Good,” it was The Nose speaking. “You have to promise that nothing said here is repeated elsewhere. The second rule is no one talks about our group.”

“Isn’t that from the movie Fight Club?” Lynne asked, a little surprised by the reference. She had taught teenagers the year Fight Club came out and had been popular with them. It wasn’t a film she would have expected a bunch of village pensioners to know.

“I love that film,” said Cleo.

“We all love that movie,” repeated The Nose.

“OK,” said Lynne. “What are you doing here? Are you a club?”

The women laughed.

Dom’s face went deadpan. “We are anarchists.”

It was Lynne’s turn to laugh. She stopped when she saw they were serious. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t lived here long, so we’ll fill in a bit of history for you,” began Dom. “Pankhurst has a proud tradition of female anarchists. They marched against child labour in factories during the Industrial Revolution. Decades later, they marched on the capital to get the vote for women. And in 1999, we brought down the W.I. here—”

“We injected salt into every packet of dried yeast in the village,” Dragon interrupted.

“Yes,” Dom continued, “thereby ruining their chances in the county bread baking competition. All the loaves from Pankhurst looked like pancakes.”

The anarchists laughed.

“Until now it was such a sore spot that no W.I. chapter dared open in this village. Angry Aggie kept harping on about it though and that’s why the meetings have restarted,” said The Nose.

“In 2005 the local council wanted suggestions on naming the small new estate they built here,” said Dom.

“We rigged the vote,” said The Nose.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why an entire section of the village is named after melons?” asked Dragon with a grin.

Lynne thought about it. There was a Cantaloupe Close, a Honeydew Avenue, a Watermelon Drive and a Sugar Street.

“Back in 2010 we petitioned to have the name of this pub changed,” Dom was on a roll.

“What was it before?” asked Lynne.

“Black Bess Inn, which was Dick Turpin’s horse,” said The Nose.

“It was racist,” said Cleo.

“And on those grounds we argued that Dick Turpin was far more appropriate,” Dom said.

“Plus,” whispered Dragon, “it has a rude word in it.” She giggled as she pulled her vaporizer from her handbag.

“So what do you want from me?” asked Lynne, but she was interrupted by the entrance of the burly landlord.

“Betsy, how many times have I told you not to smoke that thing in here?” he thundered.

“It’s Dragon to you. And it isn’t a cigarette, it’s a vaporizer, so sod off or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

The landlord frowned at the five women and didn’t argue further. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered, harrumphed, snatched the empty glasses from the table and waddled back towards the bar in the other room.

“We’ve devised our most audacious act of anarchy yet,” said Dom. “But, we need another member in our crew to succeed. Are you in?”

Lynne should have said no and left. Perhaps it was the beer talking, but she agreed. A zing of excitement ran through her as she was led to the headquarters of the Pankhurst Anarchists’ at number 22 Honeydew Avenue — Dom’s house.

The white bungalow stood near the mouth of the avenue. Wild shrubs filled the garden. The front door was jarring red, and the decor inside was as extrovert as Dom. Framed posters of The Sex Pistols, Poison Girls and The Slits adorned the living room’s bubblegum-pink walls.

“What’s that?” said Lynne, pointing to what looked like an ancient printing press. It took up the entire coffee table, which wasn’t small.

“That’s the heart of our next plan,” said Dom. She swelled with pride, like a puffed-up blue tit.

“We’re going to print counterfeit coupons,” said Dragon through a haze of cherry-scented vapor.

Dom explained that the planned act of anti-globalization would cause trouble for a branch of a worldwide corporation—namely the local supermarket.

“So, why do you need me?” asked Lynne.

“Me and Cleo used to work there. They know our faces,” said The Nose.

“And I’ve got a couple of ASBOs. I’m not allowed in the area past the cricket pitch,” admitted Dom.

“What about you?” Lynne asked Dragon.

“My husband is branch manager.”

Lynne was shocked. “You’re going to help perpetrate an act of chaos in the place where your husband’s employed?”

“He spends too much time there,” answered Dragon.

“He was bonking the pharmacist,” clarified Dom.

“Besides,” said The Nose, “this is an act against the commercial establishment, not a personal attack on Dragon’s husband.”

“Yeah, we’re anarchists, not nihilists,” Cleo finished.

“Besides,” Dom continued, “you have a trustworthy face. No one will suspect a thing.”


The next day, Lynne found herself walking the clinical aisles of the small supermarket. A wodge of counterfeit coupons burned a hole in her side, tucked into her jacket pocket. She felt nervous and exhilarated, naughty and delighted.

Dom had provided Lynne with a shopping list, ranging from upmarket cold cuts to fish gut cat food. Lynne loaded her trolley, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, knowing her fellow anarchists were tucked behind the wall in the car park at the edge of Dom’s ASBO zone. They had looked as nervous as Lynne when she had set off towards the temple of commerce.

The manager, Dragon’s husband, was flirting with the female pharmacist as Lynne ticked off the last item on her list. His behaviour and completing the list culminated in a feeling of empowerment within Lynne; she felt like the warrior queen, Boudica, about to strike at the Roman army. She marched to the till.

It took all of Lynne’s focus not to fiddle, maintain eye contact and not to appear jumpy as she prepared to pay. However, the elderly gentleman on the till didn’t seem communicative or particularly awake. Each item was meticulously scanned, and often he paused to search for barcodes.

“That’s 92 pounds and 23 pence,” he said.

“Oh,” said Lynne, “I have some coupons, too.” She handed him the wodge of counterfeit coupons.

The old man sighed as he passed each over the beeping scanner. Lynne stuffed her hands in her pockets, all her fingers crossed. Her heart thrummed like a drum skin.

The pensioner’s hooded eyes were almost open as he finished. “You have nothing to pay,” he said with surprise. “Your coupons discounted everything.”

Lynne thanked him and half-expected the alarms to go off as she passed through the doors. They didn’t. The security guard even waved her goodbye. Lynne felt guilty and thrilled. Just as her pulse resumed a more normal beat and her palms sweated a little less, she approached her hidden anarchist pals. They jumped for joy and hugged her. That was when things went wrong.

The security guard came bounding out of the automatic doors.

“Leg it!” cried Dom.

The women scattered.

Cleo grabbed the trolley and headed for her Kia Picanto. The others sprinted away.

***

John washed the dishes, and Lynne thumbed the stem of her wineglass. She remained at the dining room table, mulling over the events of that day. She hadn’t spoken to the other women since they had done a runner from the supermarket that afternoon. Part of her was disgusted by her own behavior, another part wanted to drink champagne and dance to songs by The Ramones.

There was a knock at the door. Lynne’s blood turned cold. She went rigid and nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass between finger and thumb.

“I’ll get it,” called John, already heading for the door.

The front door opened and there was a stern male voice in the entrance hall. John invited the man in. Several other footfalls followed; the man wasn’t alone. Fright jolted through Lynne when a policeman entered the dining room. Behind him were her anarchist companions.

John made everyone comfortable, fetched tea and put a plate of Hobnobs out.

The policeman introduced himself as Officer Woolcroft. “You know why I’m here, Lynne. The girls have confessed and although I agree with political freedom, I—”

Lynne’s tense outer shell cracked. The anarchist inside her flew free and she shot to her feet to gasps from John, Dom, Dragon, Cleo and The Nose. “Shut up, pig!” she yelled. “I’ll never talk. I’m an anarchist and your establishments mean nothing to me or my comrades.”

“Yeah!” shouted the quartet in unison.

John, who stood in the doorway, went slack-jawed.

The policeman looked shocked, but then he unexpectedly smiled. Everyone was confused.

Officer Woolcroft got to his feet, undid his belt, pulled down his regulation trousers along with his white boxers and revealed a tattoo of the anarchy symbol across his hirsute left buttock. Gasps filled the room, followed by gales of laughter.

As Officer Woolcroft dressed himself again, he explained that he had been an anarchist in the 80s before he joined the police force. “I miss it sometimes,” he confided. “Anyway, ladies, I can’t charge you with anything. The supermarket branch manager hasn’t pressed charges either, for some reason.”

Everyone looked at Dragon who exhaled a swirl of cherry-scented mist with a smile.

Officer Woolcroft didn’t stay long and once he had gone the women were elated; their audacious act of chaos had succeeded, and they had been let off by an anarchist sympathizer — probably the only anarchist policeman in the county.

“What’s next?” said Lynne.

Dom answered: “You get a nickname.”

“And we’re not even tipsy this time,” added Dragon.

“How about Coup?” Cleo suggested.

“As in a pigeon short of?” The Nose said with a frown.

“As in Coupon,” said Dom with a grin.

John cleared his throat and the five anarchists looked at him. “There’s just one thing I want to know,” he said. “What happened to the loot?”

Everyone looked at Cleo, who grinned.

***

Aggie put the heating on with reluctance; money had been tight since her dear Harold passed away. She returned to the boxes delivered by the parcel service, armed with a blunt knife, and cut through the tape. Amongst the packing peanuts were nestled all kinds of foods.

Aggie smiled and blinked away a tear as she picked out a tin of baked beans and canned frankfurters for her supper.

 

 

About the author: Darcy L. Wood's short fiction most recently featured in the Thirteen Podcast, After Dinner Conversation, and Land Beyond the World Magazine. In 2019, Darcy was long-listed for the annual flash fiction competition held by Shoreline of Infinity. Apart from writing, Darcy works in a pet shop and lives with a Swedish beau and their menagerie in deepest darkest Oxfordshire. Darcy is a weird mix of British-Ukrainian-Russian.

Find Darcy on Twitter/X and Threads.

The History of Birds by Jenna Hanan Moore

Echo was thrilled. Tomorrow would be her first day teaching history at Spruce University Middle School, working under preeminent historian Professor Albitrove. She only wished her mate, Peter, shared her enthusiasm.

“Pity you can’t tell them the whole truth,” Peter said as the pair sat together after dinner, preening in the upper reaches of the tree they called home.

Echo didn’t want to argue. This was her favorite time of day. The muted light from the setting sun was filtering through the leaves and the forest around them was filled with birdsong. Echo wanted to join the chorus.

“It’s a beautiful evening, Peter. Let’s just sing.”

Peter hopped back a step and turned to face her. “I’m worried about you, Echo.”

“Why?” she asked.

Peter sighed. “Don’t you remember what happened to Professor Pip?”

“That was historical revisionism. He taught—”

“We don’t know what he taught, Echo. We only know what he didn’t teach. He didn’t teach that birds are invincible because we’re the smartest animals on Earth.”

“We are the smartest animals, Peter, you know that. And you know the story I’ll tell tomorrow. It’s all true, isn’t it?”

“It’s true as far as it goes,” he admitted. “But humans were smart and versatile, much like birds. They fell precisely because they thought they were invincible. Don’t you ever worry that might happen to birds?”

“But that’s the very reason we study history, Peter! We can learn from their mistakes.”

Peter sighed. “Are you sure it won’t be an affront to Old Man Albitrove’s avian pride to even suggest that birds could make those same mistakes?”

“Of course not!” Echo replied. “He’ll want young birds to learn as much as possible! And I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Professor Albitrove is a respected historian.”

“I hope you’re right, Echo, but I’m not so sure.”

Echo hopped toward Peter and pressed her wing against his, knowing her words weren’t enough to ease his fear. Tomorrow, things would go swimmingly, and Peter would see that she was right. Then they would sing together in the evenings once again. Echo took comfort in this as they sat in silence, listening to the songs of others in the deepening twilight.

The next morning, Echo alighted on one of the lower branches of the Year Four tree. Before her, eighteen young birds perched along the three other branches that formed her classroom. Little of the story she was to tell was new to them. Birds had sung out tales of their heroic ancestors since before recorded history. Echo did her best to bring the story to life.

“The dinosaurs, our ancestors, once dominated the Earth. They grew larger and stronger until they came to rely upon their incredible size.” Here, Echo raised her crest.

She continued. “Then, the climate changed. Though large and powerful, most dinosaurs were not smart or versatile. Unable to find warmth or new sources of food, they soon disappeared.” Echo pretended to shiver. “But some smaller, bird-like dinosaurs were more resourceful than their larger cousins. They learned to find food and shelter.

“Birds adapted and thrived after the First Cataclysm, but they did not come to dominate the new world. Instead, a new species rose to take the dinosaurs’ place at the top—human beings.

“Although smarter and more adaptable than dinosaurs, humans too were destroyed. When the climate changed again, they relied on their technology for survival, just as dinosaurs had relied on their size and strength. But technology offered as little protection against a warming world as size and strength had offered dinosaurs against a cooling world.

“After the Second Cataclysm, the water receded, and birds rose to take our rightful place at the top. You’ve all heard the tales of the heroes who guided us through the dark days—Velcore the raven, Pello the eagle, Lomax the hawk. They relied on their cunning, sharp vision, and ability to fly as they learned to navigate the new world.”

Echo surveyed the faces of her students, satisfied to find all eyes riveted on her. Next came the hard part of the lesson.

“Of course, not every bird can be a folkloric hero,” she said. “What are some lessons ordinary birds can learn from the story?” The young birds stared at her blankly. After a minute that felt like an eternity, a small green bird on the rear branch raised his beak, timidly. “Yes, Kye?”

“Is it that birds are the smartest animals on Earth?”

“That’s true. But humans were smart too, and it didn’t help them during the Second Cataclysm. Can we learn anything from their mistakes?”

“Ooh, I know, I know!” A bright red bird in the second row was hopping up and down on her branch. Echo waited to give Kye a chance to answer. When he remained silent, she called on the eager red bird. “Birds can fly! Humans should’ve made wings for themselves.”

“Yes, Clarissa, flight was very important to our survival. But remember, some dinosaurs could fly, too, and they didn’t survive the First Cataclysm.” Echo scanned the rows of young birds, looking for another volunteer. Seeing none, she continued. “Kye and Clarissa both made important points. Our intellect and our ability to fly have helped birds for millions of years. But let’s look deeper. For your first homework assignment, I want you to list things the dinosaurs and humans had in common. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about those things and see if they hold any lessons for birds.”

The next day, Professor Albitrove was waiting for Echo when she arrived. “I need a word with you. If you’ll just come with me.”

“But my class—”

“Professor Lylah will fill in. Come.”

Arguing would have been pointless. Echo followed Albitrove across campus to a secluded branch at the top of the main administration tree.

“Now then, Professor Echo, we need to talk about your curriculum. You are aware, I presume, of how important it is to teach young birds that we’ve survived these millions of years because we’re the smartest animals on Earth.”

“Yes, of course, Sir.”

“Good. We want our youth to take pride in their avian heritage! But I must warn you to tread with caution.” He leaned forward. “It’s one thing to talk about the mistakes of dinosaurs and humans, but you came dangerously close to suggesting birds are fallible enough to make the same mistakes. You mustn’t do that. Historical revisionism is frowned upon. Please be more careful.”

“Yes, of course, Professor Albitrove.”

“Very well. You’re dismissed. You’ll teach your class tomorrow morning.”

Echo silently fumed as she left Albitrove’s office. She flew aimlessly through the forest for over an hour to blow off steam. Echo had as much avian pride as the next bird! How could he suggest otherwise?

Still angry, Echo landed on the branch of an unfamiliar maple to rest. She wasn’t lost, not really. Although her sense of direction was impeccable, she’d been too distracted to notice where she was flying. Once she rested, Echo would take flight and match the view of the landscape below with the map imprinted in her brain, then she’d find her way home with ease.

“You’re not going to steal my seeds, are you?” A voice behind her startled Echo. She turned to see a small red squirrel inches away. The squirrel stood between Echo and the maple’s trunk, glaring.

“No,” she stammered. “Of course not.” Echo knew that some mammals had survived the Second Cataclysm—mammals who could climb, like squirrels and chipmunks, and others who knew to retreat to higher ground, like foxes—but it wasn’t often a bird came face to face with one.

“Best not. My babies are in my nest, and I’ll fight you if I must. I know you birds think you’re superior because you have beaks and wings, but we squirrels can be tough.”

Echo laughed quietly. She couldn’t help wondering what squirrel historians taught about the cataclysms.

“What’s so funny?” the squirrel demanded. She stood on her hind legs and stretched her tail to its full length, waving its tip. “You don’t believe I can protect my babies?”

Echo took a step backwards and lowered her head slightly. “I wasn’t laughing at that,” she said. “It’s just—well, I’ve had a rough day. I was thinking about something else. May I rest in your tree for a while? I mean your babies no harm.”

The squirrel lowered her front paws and allowed her tail to curl behind her back. “Yes,” she said.

“Thank you.” Echo stood on one leg and puffed her feathers, relaxing for the first time since she’d left home that morning. “I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Echo.”

“Sylvia.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sylvia. May I ask you something?”

Sylvia nodded.

“What do squirrels learn about the cataclysms?”

“Cataclysms?” The squirrel tilted her head to the side, puzzled.

“You know, the times the climate changed and killed the dinosaurs and humans. What do you learn about how squirrels survived?”

“The truth, of course!”

“But what is the truth to a squirrel?”

“Life was easy before the Big Warm. Nuts and seeds were plentiful, and humans left food around for animals to eat. Birds didn’t try to steal our food then, the way you do now, at least the smaller birds didn’t. Some say that’s because birds had more to eat then, too. Others say birds weren’t as mean because it was humans who ruled the world. Whatever the reason, legend has it some squirrels forgot where they hid their stores of nuts. Why bother remembering when you can easily find more?

“The Big Warm came and the water rose. Squirrels had to climb high in the trees to survive. It was harder to find nuts and seeds, but we got by on leaves and fruits. Sometimes, squirrels helped chipmunks and even birds find food—and they helped us too. When the Big Warm ended and the water level fell, humans were gone. Birds got better at stealing our food, so we got better at hiding it, and we’re still here.

“That’s the truth, and that’s what we learn. We just don’t talk about it as much as you birds, always singing in the treetops about how special you think you are. Why do you do that?”

Echo thought carefully before answering. “Song has always been important to birds. It helped us get through two cataclysms.”

“Squirrels evolved after the Big Cold you sing about, but we got through the Big Warm without singing. We just chitter and go about our business. What’s the big deal?”

Sylvia had a point. Birds used song to communicate, but they could communicate the most important things with words. In the days between the cataclysms, many bird species sang to determine pecking order, but now birds vied for positions within the flock based on their skills. Still, Echo couldn’t imagine a world without song.

“I suppose it just sounds beautiful,” she said. “We may not need song to survive, but life is richer with its beauty.”

She didn’t expect Sylvia to understand, but the squirrel surprised her. “That’s how smell is for squirrels! I can’t eat most flowers, but they smell divine! If I lost my sense of smell, I’d still be able to find food, but oh, how I’d miss smelling the flowers!”

“That’s exactly how I feel about song!”

“Maybe squirrels and birds have more in common than you thought.”

This caught Echo off guard. She’d always believed birds had more in common with dinosaurs and humans than many wanted to admit, but similarities with less dominant creatures? The thought had never crossed her mind.

“Perhaps we do,” she replied. “You’ve been very helpful, Sylvia. Thank you.”

The squirrel chuckled. “Helpful with what? You birds do learn history, don’t you?”

“Of course, we do!” Echo said, puffing her feathers with pride. “I teach history to young birds and, well, there’s been a bit of a discussion at my school over just how to teach that history.”

“Oh! You’re a teacher?”

Echo nodded.

“Me too! See? I told you we had a lot in common! Listen, Echo, I teach Year One acrobatics, not history, but as a mother, I try to teach my babies everything they need to know about how to survive in this world as a squirrel. If you ask me, your young birds will understand best if you tell them everything—the good, the bad, and everything in between. They already know what’s in those dopey songs you birds always sing about your history.”

It was Echo’s turn to chuckle. “Songs of our heroes are important. Velcore and Lomax were brave and kind, smart and resourceful—all the things we try to teach our young to be. But you’re right; my students do know those tales, and they do need to know more.”

The sun had dipped below the top of the canopy and was beginning to take on an orange tint. Had Echo really spent the entire afternoon with Sylvia? “I’d best get home,” she said.

“Perhaps we can chat again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Sylvia replied.

Lifting off, Echo flew upwards until she soared above the treetops. Her eyes scanned the landscape below until it matched the map in her mind, a process that took mere seconds. Once she had her bearings, Echo swooped down and flew home through the upper reaches of the canopy.

When she reached the nest, Peter was waiting for her with a tasty casserole of bugs and seeds.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked between bites.

“You weren’t here when I got home, and I figured you had a rough day. We can talk after dinner if you like.”

“Oh, Peter! You’re the best mate in the whole world. Have I told you that lately?”

Peter puffed his chest feathers in a rare display of pride. Echo took another bite, then said, “I might like it better if we just sang together.”

After dinner, Echo and Peter sang together as they did when they were courting. They sang of love, they sang of joy, they sang of loss. They harmonized and improvised. But Echo’s soul did not soar as it usually did when they filled the air with song.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said at last. “My heart just isn’t in it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do,” Peter said. “Something’s weighing on your mind, something too heavy to be dispelled even with song. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you? Perhaps I can help.”

“I don’t think I can teach what Albitrove wants me to teach,” she blurted out. “We owe younger birds the truth, and what he wants me to teach isn’t the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know, Peter. If they banish me like they banished Pip, you’ll be hurt too, but if I toe the line or stop teaching, I’ll be letting my students down.”

For a while, Peter said nothing. He leaned against Echo’s wing and preened her feathers, offering the sort of wordless comfort that soothes a bird’s soul. After a time, he asked, “Want to tell me what happened today?”

“Have you ever met a squirrel?”

He looked at her quizzically. “No. Why?”

Echo told Peter about Sylvia and her tale of survival. “I don’t know how much is true,” she said when she finished recounting Sylvia’s story. “Squirrels likely sanitize their history just like birds do. But they did survive the Second Cataclysm, and they do share a forest with us. What they do affects us, and what we do affects them. Just like when humans were here.”

“What humans did to the forest had a huge impact on all animals, birds included.”

“Shouldn’t we be teaching the history of all who live in our forest? Isn’t it all part of our history too?”

“If I had my druthers, that’s exactly what young birds would learn,” Peter said. “But it’s not up to me.”

“I’m considering teaching about mammals,” Echo said. “Don’t get me wrong—I’d still focus on birds. And I’d still appeal to Albitrove’s avian pride. I can emphasize how much we helped other animals, and I can talk about how much better off everyone in the forest is now than they were when humans were here. But it would still be a risk. Just like you warned me.”

Peter leaned against Echo. “If you want to take that risk, you have my support. If you’re banished, we’ll start over together wherever they send you.”

The next day, Echo returned to the school to share her newfound knowledge with her students. “Yesterday, I met a squirrel who told me what her people learn about how they survived the Second Cataclysm.” Echo repeated Sylvia’s story, careful to omit any references to birds stealing from squirrels. “Does anyone have questions?”

A yellow bird raised her beak. “Did squirrels really help birds find food, Professor?”

“It’s possible,” Echo replied. “They’re not as smart as birds, and they’re not able to fly or see great distances as we are, but their sense of smell is quite keen.” Several members of the class wiggled their beaks as if trying to use their nostrils to sniff the air.

Echo continued. “You know how different birds in the flock have different skills?” Her students nodded. “That’s one reason we live in flocks. We can do more together than we can alone. Food wasn’t as plentiful during the Second Cataclysm as it is now. If squirrels could sniff out food with their noses, wouldn’t it be smart to work together for the common good?”

Some of her students nodded their heads, while others continued wiggling their beaks trying to sniff the air. Still others appeared lost in thought.

Just then, Albitrove alighted on the branch beside Echo. “Class will be dismissed early.” His announcement was met with a chorus of excited chirps.

Once the young birds had dispersed, Albitrove bellowed, “I thought I warned you!”

“You did warn me,” Echo said in a calm voice that belied her inner fear. “You warned me to avoid historical revisionism, and I’ve done just that. Nothing I’ve taught is untrue.”

“Birds have never needed help from other animals, and we never will! That is what we teach our youngsters.”

Echo refused to back down. “Birds are the smartest animals on Earth, just as I taught. But we didn’t survive the cataclysms alone.”

“You’re relieved of your duties as of now. You can’t be banished until you’ve had a fair trial, but until that time, you’re to avoid contact with any young birds who might be susceptible to your influence.”

“And what if I leave of my own accord?”

“That’s certainly an option,” Albitrove said. “If you leave of your own volition, I suggest you go far away, and soon.”

Echo flew home and waited for Peter. “Not unexpected,” he said when she told him about her confrontation with Albitrove.

“No,” Echo agreed. “But it’s still unfair.”

“I know, Echo. You’ll just have to hope you planted a seed in some of their minds. And who knows? We may find a new flock that’s more open-minded. That’s one good thing about leaving before they can banish you—we can choose our own destination.”

Early the next morning, Peter and Echo set out in search of a new life. Before departing, they stopped at Sylvia’s tree to say goodbye.

“Oh dear,” Sylvia said when Echo explained why she was leaving. “I’m afraid I’ve caused a lot of trouble, haven’t I?”

“You only told me what I wanted to know,” Echo replied. “And despite what’s happened, I’m glad you did! You helped me see things more clearly.”

“We should go,” Peter said. “We have a long flight ahead of us, and I’d like to put distance between us and this flock as soon as possible.” He nodded to the squirrel. “It was nice meeting you, Sylvia.”

“Nice meeting you, too.” She nodded at Peter, then turned to Echo. “I almost forgot to tell you! A little yellow bird visited my tree yesterday. She asked if it was true that squirrels and birds once helped each other find food. I told her it was true, and I told her lots of other animals helped each other, too.”

“That must be Kiana! She’s one of my students. I mean, she was one of my students. I wonder what made her come here.”

Sylvia replied, “She said she was doing a research project for her science class about interspecies cooperation in preserving the forest.”

“That’s a cutting-edge field,” Peter said. “Not too well-known in this flock, but it’s gaining traction with the flocks on the other side of the creek.”

After a final round of goodbyes, Echo and Peter lifted off and flew straight up until they were high enough to soar on the wind. Then they flew west into unknown territory.

As dusk faded into darkness, they stopped for the night. Even though they were tired from their long flight, the pair sang together in the branches of a sycamore tree before drifting off to sleep. For the first time in a long while, Echo’s spirit soared as they filled the cool night air with songs of adventure and hope.

 

 

About the author: Jenna Hanan Moore loves to travel, take pictures, drink coffee, and immerse herself in nature or a good story. She lives with her husband and dog, currently in southern Illinois, but she left her heart in the Pacific Northwest. Her tales appear in places like Luna Station Quarterly, The Lorelei Signal, 365 Tomorrows, Twenty-two Twenty-eight, and Friday Flash Fiction, with forthcoming stories in Savage Planets and AI, Robot, an anthology from Jay Henge Publishing. She is the founder and editor of Androids and Dragons.

Forgive you not by JP Heeley

Fi and I cuddled up under the duvet with Oscar nestled between us. He’d taken to climbing into our bed recently when his night-time nausea got too much.

We listened to the Prime Minister being grilled on the morning news. He twisted under questioning.

“It cannot be helped. We cannot expect business to step into this – would you? I mean its common sense. And government? If we do this, we’d be on the hook for every failed service…I mean, we cannot do that. Look Sarah, it’s not our money, it’s yours–and if we did this, your children’s and their children’s too. These are hard choices, Sarah. They may have to…”

He’d blundered into a trap of his own making; one the interviewer was quick to keep him in. “Have to what, Prime Minister?”

“Well, um, Sarah, you see this is moral hazard. We step in here, which we as a nation can ill-afford to do…and it’s not just the cost of this. We do it and we only encourage others to take risks…”

He did not say it. Did not have the guts to say what he meant. That PancWeb was going to fail, and we were going to let it. People were going to die, in their millions.

The thing about diabetes is that it is so damned big. Dream disease – first chronic, then deadly. Debilitating yet treatable for anyone who can keep paying.

The genius of PancWeb was that it did not try to be an artificial pancreas. It was simple to implant, hardly more complex than a stent. Pop it in in the morning and back at your desk that afternoon, that’s what they used to say. Once in place, the web literally grew down the intestinal tract where, through careful self-regulation, it seeped just enough insulin into the body to break down glucose.

It was heaven sent for our Oscar. He got his diagnosis at seven, just seven! It meant a life of paranoid management under the threat of coma. Except for the miracle of PancWeb. It was the easiest decision we ever made.

But its genius was its downfall. Once it was in, you couldn’t take it out. Not without a series of difficult, time-consuming procedures to laboriously pluck out every last gram of the web. That was something few could tolerate and fewer afford.

So, when it went wrong, when the PancWeb’s fatal flaw revealed itself, the crisis was inescapable. You see, the web started to degrade after five years of use. Of course, the degraded web poisoned the patient, making them progressively weaker until it finally killed them. What’s worse, thanks to generous healthcare outreach, the benefits of this miracle cure had been shared globally. By the time the link was proven, there were nearly half a billion devices implanted and weaving their deadly web.

It was someone’s fault—someone had to pay. And by the time corporate contagion was cauterised, it had already done for three stock market darlings, toppling like dominoes one after another. Insurance was next, then the reinsurers. Which all of course hit the pensions, impoverishing electorates.

All this created the perversity of deliberately sleepwalking into the death of millions. With solemn faces, the politicians began to say that the people had paid enough. And do you know what? Some people started to agree.

Enough! Really? Just change the rules. Take global action. Do it, just for this, but right now. Or time runs out, and they will all die.

#

It unified us, in a way. Around the world, victims mobilised, and public opinion swung behind us. Those in power felt the pressure.

In England, we tried to force their hands in court, force the government to stand behind the right to life. On the day of judgement, we were there, Fi and me. We waited, mobbed outside the High Court. There were some hundreds of us facing the shields and batons of the police. It was desperate stuff, but the wheels of law would turn and deliver our just fate.

The suited barrister stood at the podium before us, police flanking his position. It did not look good.

“The law is the law,” he started “it is not some arbitrary sense of right and wrong. This place can only deal with professional disinterest and apply the law as we find it.”

There were shouts already.

“The facts and the precedent are inescapable. It is with true sympathy and a shared distaste that…”

Blah blah blah…

The suit’s flat words were received with anything but flatness. The shoving came from the back of the crowd at first as we all roared our outrage. This could not be it. This was not our way. They’d thrown raw impotence at us, and we spat it back with shouts and banners, then bricks.

Which drew the inevitable response of muscular and batonned pressing into us—step-shove, step-shove. Our lips may have been split, but our spirits weren’t broken.

Our reaction, the rage, those bricks, they were just what They wanted, the government, the money, the haters. Unreasonable, irresponsible, dangerous, unacceptable. Just like that, sympathy was turned, and unity split in twain. Responsibility and fault were spread; they were diffused and reflected.

Oh, and the riot stoked the Counters. It brought them out from their online conspiracy corners into the open, into our real lives. They’d been around online ever since the PancWeb crisis hit. It was our own fault we had diabetes in the first place, no self-control, ate too much. And anyway, what do you expect if you subject yourself to unnatural medical procedures? We should have known it was too good to be true. Why should they be expected to pick up the bill?

And so, when it was time to make hard choices, our government, Our Government, clothed the Counters in respectability—gave their lies credence as a bulwark against crippling cost. Emboldened, the Counters became a movement; you saw them everywhere we protested, throwing hate back at us.

#

We sat huddled in our tent, Fi, Oscar and me. Fi’s eye had come up black after the High Court riot—a baton in the face. Whether it was the police or one of the Counters, she did not see, but it was a right old shiner. I was hugging Oscar. He still had his childlike looks that played so innocently in the news. But he should have been growing, not diminishing. While his friends bulked up and pulled away from their parents, Oscar regressed, less confident, more dependent, weaker. I gave him a squeeze and breathed in his scent.

Our camp had spread over Parliament Square, standing sentry over the Parliamentarians debating our fate. It was a haphazard mix of multi-coloured dome-tents and old- fashioned ridge-jobs held sturdy with rigid poles and guys that lay in wait for staggerers late at night. Outside, the police’s megaphones shouted their garbled message. “Disperse, go home.”

Accept your fate.

The court had judged. The people’s representatives had spoken. And public opinion? Oh, that had so relentlessly swung behind them both. It was a tragedy. No one could have foreseen what would happen. And now that it had happened, there was nothing to be done. Nothing that anyone was willing to do.

Shouts and screams were coming from outside the tent.

“Mummy, Mom?” Oscar said weakly, looking first at me, then to Fi with fear in his eyes.

“Let’s go, Jas,” said Fi.

“Go?” I looked at her. She had always been the one that refused to give up.

“It’s not safe.” Her eyes flicked to Oscar, who had retreated, curled up in my lap like he was eight again.

“Oh,” my voice fell flat. “What about Hyde Park? That’s supposed to be safer” I said.

Fi paused a little. “Or we could just go home…” she said.

That was when someone crashed onto our tent. A sudden bulge fell between us, and the sound of profanities spouted from outside. A tentpole sprung out of place and the whole thing started to collapse, swamping us like a heavy blanket.

“That does it…” Fi was scrabbling for our stuff—clothes, torches and chargers, anything she could scoop into her bag. “Just take Oscar, I’ve got this.”

So it was Oscar and me that first pushed our way out from our pancaked tent.

“Christ Fi, get out,” I shouted when I saw what was happening.

The horses! They’d unleashed the horses. They were charging full pelt from Westminster Bridge, sending the protestors scattering in panic. Meanwhile, a water canon was spraying canvas-stripping plumes across the square, hemming the protesters into a desperate crush to the north.

It was then that I saw the flag, the one with the green and red cobweb. It had been torn free by the water jet and flung into the air, where it turned and twisted. And just for one moment, it hung above us, like our cause faltering against the inevitability of gravity…

“For god’s sake Jas!” It was Fi, pulling me from my stupor.

We were standing in a no-man’s land. Towards Parliament, the militants were fighting back. The pained whinny of a horse drew armoured police and the acrid aroma of pepper spray. There was no quarter down there. Away, towards the parks, the protesters were stoppered by enclosing roads, their bodies thick with panic, a screaming cacophony as the trampling began.

“Jesus, Fi” was all I could say.

That’s when we heard the shot. The first shot that is. It came from the battle by parliament. Who knows who fired first, but we all know what happened next. The news and the Prime Minister made sure we knew. We ran, like desperate sheep struggling to break free of ever confining fences. Our hands gripped Oscar and we used our shoulders and elbows to cut paths through the pressed crowd, who yelled and pushed in return. The side streets were blocked with plastic barricades, manned by police with riot shields. We were swept along with the bruised, the terrified, and the horrified into the open space of St James Park. Here the broken protesters fell to their knees and sobbed or roared in outrage.

We stumbled on from there, carried by a dazed crowd to the gathering at Hyde Park. To our people. To safety.

#

That was it really, the tipping point. Our tragic fate turned creation myth for society’s new enemies. We became something to be protected against. Persecutors, not victims.

I guess it helped, really. For the rest of you—for you not affected, do you know? I think in some way, we were society’s cure. We were like a virus and by raising the antibodies of hate against us, you fought us and got better. A sick man is desperate and will take any medicine he needs to survive. Shake the virus and come back stronger.

It was Hyde Park where it finally hit home. Thankfully, Fi and I chose to leave three days before Eviction Night.

We’d been happy there in our safe little village. Oscar wasn’t a lonely, strange, sickly child. He had friends, all dimming together. And we had a community, parents each enduring the same dreadful, inevitable fate. But the Solidarity Camp had begun to empty, their guitars and drums thinned out. The food that was so generously and deliciously prepared was reduced to a bland sustaining gruel. Not that we minded that—it was other things we minded.

We were used to the Counters, their cat calls and derision. Real life trolling played out so proudly for the news. You had to be immune to them or it would drive you crazy. But it got worse. The Counters were legitimised by politicians and press with their questions and challenges, rumours and innuendo. Blind eyes were turned to their behaviour, and any outrage was mired in independent reviews that would conclude long after we were all gone.

You know that thing that states do? The thing where they shine bright lights and play terrible music really loudly at some Generalissimo holed up in his compound? Well, they’re crowd-sourcing that now. The outraged mob of Counters asserted their right to protest beside us in the park. And that right was delivered by halogen and rock.

“Come on…we know how this ends.” That’s how Fi said it. She was right, of course she was right.

I think leaving that place was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. Worse than the battle of Parliament Square. Worse even than The Night.

We’d not really left our spot near the square at the middle of the camp for a week. Oscar was nicely lost in loving companionship, painting, and low-key circus skills. We even had our own media, running 24/7. It had kept the spirit in the global community strong, cocooned in its own little bubble. So by the time we left, the Counters had established their perimeter. You see, since the Oxford Circus bomb, they’d pretty much been given a free rein.

Fi and I never agreed about Oxford Circus. It poisoned us. Does do something mean do anything? Any means necessary was what Fi had said in an echo of other struggles. But we both knew it was too late. Oxford Circus, Times Square, Gare du Nord—hundreds of lives snuffed out in an organised cry of impotence and injustice. And all it achieved was unleashing them, deputising the Counters to go where legitimate law couldn’t tread.

“It’s not going to get any better, Jas,” Fi said. “We’ve had the good days. Let’s just go home for the end.”

There you are. She said it. The end. It was an end.

Days. Weeks if you are lucky, but not a month. That’s what the Doctor said. It had got into Oscar’s spine and was now spreading to his brain. There was no stopping it, just manage the symptoms, manage the pain. Poor Oscar, he was so distant. He just wanted cuddles.

Why do they hate us? We were just two women with their son. But it was hate. As we stepped from our camp and into their lights, we shielded our eyes and could hear their voices rising above the moronic music.

“Go back and die!”

I wanted to hold Oscar, cradle him to my breast, protect him. But he was up to my chin now—I could not do that. So we walked either side of him, arms and bodies shielding him from what they threw. We walked towards the braying mob.

I could see the police, riot shields resting against the trees, idly looking our way as the air became thick with missiles. They did not budge an inch. We raised our arms against the bottles and piss and flinched as the timber and half bricks found their mark. And ducking low we protected Oscar from the worst of it. Only the worst though.

When we reached them, the crowd parted, then closed again—surrounding us.

We’d heard it all before—our sex, our sexuality, my ethnicity—all a cause for ignorant hate. Online, PancWeb victims met horrific bile and abhorrent illegal threats. We were used to it. But to have all this shouted in your face in a shower of spittle by a man too long from bathing…

“Hey! That’s enough!” A saviour’s voice came from nowhere. I never saw their face. We were clinging to each other too hard, eyes down trying not to provoke them. But the mob moved, opening, letting us pass.

“Let them run to their holes and die. It’s just a couple of dykes and a kid.”

We moved, walked fast through the mob receiving nothing but kicks, shoves, and spit.

We made directly for the police, towards where they stood impassively as we approached. “Go on, fuck off home,” was all they offered, watching a piss-stained thirteen- year-old stumble past their absent care.

There was paint on our door when we got home. Unclean daubed in putrid green and red. Since we’d been doxxed they’d brought it all offline, right to our own home.

“This,” I said to Fi. “This is what your lot have made happen.” I didn’t even leave it at that. “You and your lot,” I said in tears, my knees buckling at my own front door.

Why did I say that?

#

Deeply regretful. Lessons must be learned, the Prime Minister said four days later about the horror of Eviction Night. We’d made it out in time, before the worst of the Counters’ excess had been unleashed and unrestrained against everyone we’d left there. We’d seen it coming. So had they, so had everyone. Why couldn’t they just let us be?

But we had friends. Brave friends, battered friends, who nevertheless stood beside us. We did not need to shop or clean or cook that last week. Dave and Sue, Kareem and Ash, Pippa and Sandy. They came in shifts, being there when we needed it, keeping scarce when not.

We were loved despite it all—despite the centrifugal force that was tearing at Fi and me with looming pain and present faults. We kept it together, for the most part, for Oscar’s sake. But the fault lines between us were deepening further for being buried. I felt the distance.

Why did I say that?

In those final days, a strange solemnity settled. There was nothing to be gained from hate or struggle. The end was inevitable. At home, we played our greatest hits. For Oscar, for Fi, let’s face it, for me. Mushroom pilaf, Jenga, whatever that driving game was that Oscar was hooked on. We were conjuring a past to live in, urging it to stretch forever. One day, two days, three days, more.

#

I couldn’t bear to watch the Prime Minister that night. His soothing words urging healing. Where was his healing when we needed it? Where were all of you when we needed you? We felt so very alone.

It was Pippa and Sandy on duty on The Day. They were keeping their distance in the kitchen, no doubt listening to the PM. Fi and I were on the sofa with Oscar laid across our laps. Fi stroked his hair. He was so passive, we thought wordlessly as we watched our boy go pale.

“Mummy,” Oscar said.

“Yes?” We both said together.

“You’re going to be fine, Ozzy,” Fi said.

“Mummy…I don’t want…” Oscar was becoming weaker.

“I know, my love,” I said, squeezing his hand. “We tried, my love … everything …” I was lost. There was nothing I could say.

The pain was written in his face; the drugs had stopped working. There was no way back—we had to let him go.

Fi started to hum. It was that old lullaby we used to sing to him as a baby. I hummed too, tears rolling down my cheek. Then we sang.

Go to sleep, darling Oscar
Darling Oscar, go to sleep.

Our voices cracked as the frown left Oscar’s face. His muscles were no longer tense, his breathing shallowed, then stopped.

#

Fi left too. After the funeral there was too much, and our rift was too deep. I couldn’t stay in the flat either. It’s let to someone else now. But I did go to the ceremonies. Mourning and reconciliation, they said they were. Closure Pippa said I’d get.

I don’t even know what that means. You don’t close the door on that, you don’t move on to a new chapter. I wear it here, in my heart. It stains everything I see, hear and taste. And I would not have it any other way.

They did not move on either, the Counters. Maybe I should have let it go, move on with my life, like Fi. But apparently, I made it up—we all did. Or we brought it on ourselves to rob them of their freedom or some such. I don’t know. I refused to let their lies stand. I confronted them and those that sought comfort in their fictions. I had to, for Oscar.

And they know who I am—they keep track. There was paint on my apartment door again last week. The landlord is upset—it makes the other tenants nervous, he said. No offense, but two weeks’ notice.

I shouldn’t have taken them on, I guess. Bury Oscar and get on with my life. But I’m not going to do that. Shall I take my revenge? Smear excrement on their doors? Homemade explosives on reconciliation day? Or at whatever sporting irrelevance that the nation is using to turn a corner. Nightly I recount it. But no—I shall pick the scab and keep the wound raw.

#

So here we are, International Reconciliation. Across the globe we come together to remember, to mourn in a spirit of reconciliation, bringing our broken society together. Our fractured society was refusing to mend, so it was time to put away the rancour and the blame and start to look forward.

Is that right?

Five years after they’d buried the last of us, buried our souls in indifference, then contempt, then hate. Five years is long enough to put the rancour behind us—to forget our differences, they said. Forgive the deaths on both sides.

Things were said that we regret. Things were done that we regret. It is time to put them to one side and move on.

Move on?

I was chosen. A grieving mother and vocal representative of the anger and pain that refused to fade, who daily reminded you all of what you did, what you let happen. If I can sit in reconciliation, if I can set aside and even forgive, there is hope that we can all come together and move on. Never again.

Never bloody should have done it in the first place.

I was chosen a second time. This time by our community. There would be one of us in each ceremony to sow the destruction of their cause. It was just a simple thing they gave me, I could pop it under my bra and none would be the wiser. Just pair it with my phone for maximum devastation.

It was a lovely spring-summer day. The kind that Oscar revelled in. I felt the heat on my skin, the warmth on my cheeks. St Paul’s was positively glowing, the crowd struggling to keep solemnity as the dignitaries arrived. Shouts of excitement at celebrities, boos soon muffled when the villains of both sides stepped from their cars.

They’d laid a green carpet for us. Not the blooming light green of spring, but the deep maturing of a summered oak leaf. This is England—long we’ve stood and long we shall stand.

I got some boos. The undimmed Counters had secured their place at the barriers and their spotters soon pointed me out. I was a minor demon, worthy of perfunctory barracking. Not the frothing fury they reserved for their most hated who followed me.

The security gate chimed of course when I passed through it. It detected the pins in my arms and collarbone from that time the Counters gave me a proper kicking after the protest in Brighton. So they waved me through with a simple chaste frisk by female hands. Maybe this was why I was chosen.

“This way.” The purple-trimmed steward touched my elbow and gestured towards the chairs beneath the dome. I chewed a Rennie to calm the acid that was forcing its way up my oesophagus.

I could not muster a smile or kind words as we were introduced to Them. Them, those faces and silken oh-so-reasonable voices that had pronounced Oscar’s death five years ago. That had said nothing could be done when it could. That roused the rabble of hate to save their own skins. No, not even their skins—the jobs they wanted and the power they had to wield. It was Oscar’s skin they sacrificed—and my life.

So I stood, tight-lipped, and held out a hand that was shook.

“I’m sure,” I think I said. That was it. The blood was roaring in my ears and I wanted to spill my bile now, here in front of them all. But that would have had me out of there and I was chosen. I had to be in there.

So my lips stayed thin and maybe I even forced a little smile.

I was seated two to the right and four seats behind the Prime Minister, just so the camera could pull focus if a suitably sympathetic look crossed my face. We sang their hymn—Abide With Me. I’d chosen to do it then.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide

Voices raised, set course by the choir and soaring with patriotic fervour

The darkness deepens, Lord, with me abide

As one the cathedral embraced the despair of half a decade ago

When other helpers fail and comforts flee

Of course, none of them identifying as the failing helper

Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

But the helpless had been too few to provide more than company and succour.

Then, the third verse was my mark. As it rose, I took the phone from my pocket and could feel the edges of the thing in my bra dig into my ribs. My mouth parched and I croaked the words

I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness
Where is death’s sting?

My moment. I dropped my hymn book and tore at my dress, yanking the device from my breast.

Where, grave, thy victory?

The congregation sang while those around me stepped back from the mad woman, or forward to offer help. I clicked the button as their final words dissolved into confusion.

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.

#

So, I spoke. And the device came to life, amplifying and filling the cathedral with my words. It seemed to me that every phone in the place was held up, making sure the moment was saved, streamed, and shared. I spoke.

I do not forgive.

I do not forgive you
Any of you
For what you did
Or what you did not do.
It was your choice
You had everything you needed to know
You chose who to listen to
And I do not forgive you.

That was my message to your reconciliation. It was carried by every news outlet and to every corner of social chatter. You cannot pretend you are reconciled. You are not.

#

“Jasmine, what do you want them to do? What now?” the journalist asked me months later at the foot of the High Court stairs on the day of my acquittal.

“I don’t know. How could I know?” I spat back at him. “Not to get here, how about that? Go back in time and show some humanity. This is your damned mess—you work out what to do.”

#

For Oscar

For Fi

For us all.

 

 

About the author: JP Heeley is a London-based author of science and speculative fiction.

Find him on Mastadon @jon53@wandering.shop and Bluesky @jon53.bsky.social

The love-hate relationship I have for iKasi (the hood) by Lerato Ofentse Makwela

The earliest and fondest memory I have from eKasi started in Soweto, Mofolo South – Keswa Street, number 96 opposite Gog’ Pat and diagonal to Ka’Mamsie, a tavern with the best Jukebox. That’s where I discovered my love for the 70s, 80s, and 90s music. Kids weren’t allowed in that space but I somehow knew the drunkards were charged R2 for their music requests. I’d sit on the bulky cement surrounding the grass next to my gate and listen to the music. It was loud.

We lived in a corner house yard with a black and white see-through gate made from metal. The paint was always faint. My mom and I lived in a tiny backroom she rented where the kitchen, dining room, bedroom, toilet (bucket), and later bought a washing machine were all squashed in one room, it was fairly neat, clean, and well-arranged. My mom was that person, cleanliness was non-negotiable. We survived, we made it our home, and some of my nostalgic moments were formed there.

Mom and I in our one room.

Growing up, I started playing emva’kwama room—loosely translated, behind the backrooms of the main house in our yard. I used to come back from school, go straight to the backrooms, and start teaching the dustbin, containers, and drums with a cane or a rod I found on top of the toilet roof. I’d imitate my teachers Mrs. Thomas or Mrs. Van der Westhuizen and beat these “kids.” I’d steal chalk from school for my lessons back at home. I used to write and draw on a rusty door and the chalk would blow and rest on my eyelids and hair. I wouldn’t care, I was dedicated to teaching! Thinking about it now, it was a cool way for me to revise what was taught in class and I’d do well. To this day my stepdad calls me “Ma’am.”  I didn’t like playing in the streets then. In my mind, it wasn’t safe.

As time went by, I started getting taller and growing up. I had friends in my street, boys and girls. In the Black community when you start growing up responsibilities start building up as well, and my responsibilities from my mom included washing the dishes, cleaning the only fifteen white tiles that were visible in our room, making sure the mini bar stoep (porch) was polished and beaming red, and taking out isiShebo (meat) from the freezer. We all have a story about forgetting to take out the meat, and you knew what that meant right?

Being in the streets always felt nice. Jokes were flying and for some reason, we always had money for ama ice (ice lollies). We would play iBathi ne scotch (hopscotch). The first time I was exposed to a skateboard was eKasi but we didn’t use it for actual skating. You’d sit on it, and we’d push you and let you slide on your own. To our advantage, our street was downsloped. There was a tiny bump on the road, and it felt like you were driving an actual car speeding towards a hump. The thrill! We would start racing from the top corner house located at the busiest curve, “e-number 84,” popularly known as “enkomeni,” another tavern with a bit of class compared to KaMamsie. They sold the best ribs in Mofolo. Ask anyone about it, they’ll tell you. On Sundays my stepdad would go there and gather with his friends for iStokvel, but only for men. Being in the street meant being exposed to the lingo, being wary of what happens in that house, who’s been to prison, who has twenty kids, why we wouldn’t get our tennis balls if they fell over a certain house and so forth. I was exposed to older boys saying, “Haa, wena ngizoz’khulisela wena, umuhle saan” (I’ll groom you, you’re beautiful).

I wouldn’t say I was different from my peers, but I suppose I was “different.” Everyone has a nickname in eKasi. There’s no one who lives in the hood and doesn’t earn a nickname. Mine was “mlungu” because I’m light-skinned. In my 10, 11, and 12-year-old mind I honestly thought they saw me as a white person and my fair skin backed it up. We all know what the indoctrination of a light skin brings within a community of brown skinned people. You’re treated a bit better when your skin is lighter. All the boys like you and you get special privileges like throwing the ball first when we play iBathi because “umuhle” (you’re beautiful).

All that nice princess treatment happens until you don’t get first preference in the real world. All of a sudden, you’re reminded, “even if you’re light-skinned, you’re still a nigga.” That’s a joke and I’m digressing. Back to the story.

Growing up eKasi gave me the confidence to talk to the roughest people, people you wouldn’t ordinarily talk to. People from eKasi always have this confidence and assurance that you can’t get mugged in your hood and I agree.

I’m quite familiar, accustomed, and comfortable walking around Eldorado Park, even though it’s known to be one of the biggest drug hubs and hijacking spots after the Cape Flats. I spent thirteen years of my life in Eldorado Park during my primary and high school years. Instead of taking the taxi with my colored friends after school, we would rather walk in groups and scatter as we go around their Kasi and take different paths each day. You can situate me anywhere in Eldo’s, I’ll always find my way back home.

I’ve lived eMdeni as well, a place well known for danger. Mdeni will always have a special place in my heart. I’ll share that story someday.

Living eKasi is cool because of the culture and lived experience. You can’t relate it to any other. The collectivism structure is much stronger than individualism. The notable and rich spaza shops our neighbors owned were good things to see while growing up. KaZwane, KaNomsa, eCrossroad, Ka Gog’ Skoni, and KaBhut’ Sipho—those were the shops that raised us, and you always felt at home and knowing that your own people owned shops and butcheries felt empowering. There is richness eKasi, there’s flavor. Thandiswa Mazwai expressed with confidence and reminiscence when she said, “The ghetto is our first love, and our dreams are drenched in gold…”

…To a certain extent. iKasi, however has its own downfalls. Lines are easily blurred and boundaries are often crossed. When you want better for yourself, you’ll hear phrases like “wena uzyenza ngcono” (you think you’re better). It almost feels like we should all be stuck at the same level; compressed, so to say. It’s quite hard excelling eKasi on your own because that attracts bad company around you. iKasi is not as progressive as we would like for it to be. I can’t blame or crucify anyone who lives there with that kind of mentality or spirit because we were placed in concentration camps, and we found a way to survive with no trees, literally.

There is no space to breathe. Your yard has limits, we are all packed on top of each other, and any open space is turned into a dumping site for the whole community—next to your house, as if the municipality doesn’t provide dustbins. People piss on your wall or gate, leaving empty bottles of beer on your pavement. Noise pollution, too, since you live next to a tavern. Helicopters fly over your homes day and night because a car was stolen, and the entire community knows who it was but won’t say. Crime is rife. You’d make the mistake of moving away for a second from your new takkies on the toilet roof or wall, and they’ll be gone by the time you return, because we live amongst drug addicts.

What this kind of environment evokes and breeds is hypervigilance.

I’m an advocate of making iKasi a better place, holistically, and everyone should be hands-on. Future astrophysicists, artists, doctors, filmmakers, writers and poets are born and bred there. I grew up wanting to be a doctor, but no role model eKasi visualized that for me. All these beautiful elements and stories exist eKasi, they are merely blanketed by non-exposure. Professionals who’ve made it from eKasi need to come back and pay back their dues. I know I’ll be doing that. Teaching simple skills could go a long way for kids situated eKasi. Ignition paves the way for many. Values and morals too. I’m also an advocate of getting out of iKasi if you can and experiencing life on a different spectrum. They say the same about traveling in general. It always saddens me that there are people who were born, bred, and die eKasi who’ve never been exposed to anything outside of Soweto or any kind of Kasi. iKasi is a cool place, it just needs corroboration and collaboration.

iKasi can be a place of positivity and growth. Many undiscovered gems exist there. We can’t get rid of it, so we might as well uplift and build it.

For every good, there is the bad.

 

 

About Lerato Ofentse Makwela: I am a Writer & Philosopher, a Politics & Economics scholar who is passionate about the world being a much better place than what it is now. I am a lover of words and how beautiful they are when formed together. I believe in art & socialism. 

Read more of Lerato’s writing on her blog.

Takeshi’s Cat by Dianthe West

Once upon a time there was a bus driver who, nearing retirement, worried that his three adult children would never be able to afford their own homes in the Capital City real estate market. The children — an engineer, an airline pilot, and a human rights lawyer, were all so clever and brave that the bus driver began to be afraid that when he passed on, they would fight over his $2M, 1200 sq. ft. attached home, which he’d bought for $50,000 in 1967, and was for all intents and purposes a teardown, really.

Now, the bus driver, although he was nearing seventy, did not at all wish to give up dictating the governance of the province according to what worked in 1975, so he thought the best way to live in peace would be to divert the minds of his adult children with promises that he could always get out of when the time came for keeping them.

With this in mind, he descended into the tiny, two-room basement that his children shared with twenty millipedes, three rats, the furnace, and the laundry pair. After speaking to them kindly, he said, “You will agree, my dear children, that because I plan to spend all of the planet’s resources before I die, I fear that this may affect the welfare of my grandchildren — or your desire to give me grandchildren at all; therefore, I wish that one of you should solely inherit the house. But I expect something from you in return! As I think of going on my 135th Festival Cruise, I think a lively, faithful little dog would be delightful company. The one who brings me the most beautiful little dog shall inherit the house at once.”

The engineer, the airline pilot, and the human rights lawyer were surprised by their father’s sudden dog fancy, but they were also elated, as it gave each of them a chance they would not otherwise have of owning a home in Capital City. They accepted the challenge. Each bade farewell to the bus driver, who gave them gifts of the city’s best vegan unchicken and bubble tea, and they proposed to meet him at the same hour, in the same place, after a week had passed, to present the little dogs they had brought for him.

The engineer, the airline pilot, and the human rights lawyer sat in their father’s damp basement nibbling on their takeout and wondering what to do next.

“We could fly to Palm Beach, bring all of our friends, and go to the Royal Dog Show,” the airline pilot said. “I hear the banquet is incredible.”

“We could contact the animal rescues who evacuate dogs from war-torn kingdoms and see how many we can help,” the human rights lawyer said.

But the engineer was quiet. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white paper business card she’d found discarded on the subway that morning. It had three lucky cats on one side and a URL printed on the other.

She flipped it over and over in her hand. “We should split up,” she said.

Each sibling took a different road. The pilot flew all of their friends to the dog show. The human rights lawyer rescued countless animals from oppressive regimes around the world.

But it is about the youngest, the engineer, that you are going to hear.

She was clever, and generous, and bold, and knew everything that an engineer ought to know. She spent the bulk of that day visiting dogs — big and little, greyhounds, mastiffs, spaniels, and Lhasa Apsos. As soon as she had seen a pretty one, she knew was sure to see one prettier. So, she journeyed through the city, not knowing where she was going, until at last, at nightfall, she reached the public library.

She did not know her way around the public library, having recently been privy to the privileged halls of engineering school, but as her student years had ended, so did her access, and her jumbo student loans were also in repayment. She stepped gingerly through the tall, revolving doors and made her way to one of the public computers. Here, she fished the white paper business card out of her pocket.

Lightning illuminated the lucky cats’ faces. They seemed to sneer while rain beat down upon the skylights above. The engineer turned over the card once more and typed in the URL.

With a thunderous crash, a white light emanated from the computer screen. In a moment, it enveloped her. The engineer found herself tumbling to the ground in the middle of a dark, ancient wood.

Shocked but ever practical, she stood up, smoothed her hair, dusted off the pine needles, and struck out on foot, hoping to find some cottage, as one does, where she could find shelter and warmth. Her stomach growled. She’d packed away two parcels of vegan unchicken, but it was now getting on into the night.

In the distance, there was a bright glow like the one that had emanated from the library terminal. It led her to the door of the most splendid castle she could have imagined. Or it could have been splendid at some point. She had to use a lot of imagination. The castle had two broken-down Styrofoam towers, with an enormous keep in between. Its great door was made of cheap plastic with flecks of peeling gold paint. There were indentations where fake jewels might have been when the castle was new and in its prime.

They must feel very secure against robbers, she thought. Everything that’s not nailed down is already gone.

The engineer placed one hand on the castle wall. It had the texture of rough-hewn packing material, and all the graffiti she had seen in her life was plastered upon it. She was terribly cold and also very soaked, so she turned again to the great plastic door. There, she found a toy sushi hanging by a rope.

She pulled on the sushi-on-a-rope and immediately heard a tinkling bell. The door flew open. But instead of a great hall with a staircase, she found a cliff overhanging a pit of paper serpents. Their ornate bodies coiled and writhed in a vile, crunching hubbub. The engineer stood for a moment with her mouth agape then felt invisible hands pushing her forward.

Taking her hand off the phone in her pocket — she’d been prepared for whatever might happen — the engineer noticed a long thick rope tied to a hook on the wall. She took it down and tied it into knots, each one meter apart. Then she eyeballed the rope, the pit, and the opposite platform, did a quick calculation and swung over the serpents, landing akimbo on the other side.

She sprung nimbly to her feet, as two voices sang from the rafters:

Excellent players drop out
One after another;
However, their efforts
Eventually pay off;
You idiot! You made it!

The engineer expected better from an enchanted castle, but she felt the inexplicable need to press on. Standing before her was a door made of faux carbuncles, which of course opened by itself. She entered and strolled through ten rooms in succession before she found a comfortable armchair. Next to it, a fireplace lit up. Nearby, the engineer found fresh white clothes embroidered with gold lamé and faux emeralds. She discarded her soaked clothes and put these on. Now snug and dressed as Elvis, she saw a table was laid for supper.

To the engineer’s surprise, into the room marched twelve scruffy cats carrying guitars. They began to strum and howl a ghastly tune. The engineer fell into fits of maniacal laughter. I should have gone to the dog show, she thought. But, given her current company, she kept these thoughts to herself.

Following the musicians came five more figures led by two cats dressed as samurai. One of the figures was taller than the rest. It wore a sequined white gown with a frayed nylon veil. The figure approached the engineer and threw back its veil to reveal the face of a pale woman. She looked very sad, and in a sweet voice that went straight to the engineer’s heart, she said:

“Engineer; I, the Queen of Cats, am glad to see you. I hope you will find our decrepit towers hospitable. The castle was originally built by an evil wizard, so we don’t call it by its original name anymore, and we can’t maintain it due to the current zoning laws, either, but I hope you will forgive us. You know what the property market is like.”

“Lady Cat,” the engineer replied, “Thank you for receiving me so kindly.” She studied the Queen’s uncanny near-human visage. “But surely you are no ordinary cat?”

“Bus driver’s child,” said the Queen, narrowing her almond-shaped eyes, “You are indeed very clever.” As they sat down to dinner, the engineer noticed the Queen wore a necklace containing a portrait. To the engineer’s surprise, it was a portrait of her father. The Queen observed the engineer’s gaze and sighed, but the engineer dared not ask any more questions.

When everyone was filled to the brim with fine supper, the Queen led her entourage to a room fitted with seventeen tall mushrooms in a large pool of water. All of the cats lined up at one end of the room. Seeing no viable alternative, the engineer quickly joined them.

“Ready, set, go!” the Queen proclaimed. The cats all hopped from mushroom to mushroom. The engineer noted that some of the caps were like solid rocks, but others stood on squishy springs. The ones that were soft dumped the hapless competitors headfirst into the pool. As the Queen yelled, “Disqualified! Disqualified!” the engineer did a quick calculation of the pattern. She took a running leap and jumped through the puzzle unharmed.

Then, the Queen said good night to all. An invisible force led the engineer to an ornate bedroom high up in the castle’s towers. The walls were lined with mirrors. A bed and wardrobe stood against the wall, made of translucent plexiglass and faux rubies. Exhausted, the engineer sank into the pile of pink polyester pillows and settled in for the night under the matching sateen duvet.

In the morning, the engineer awoke to all manner of noise and bustle outside. She got up and found in her wardrobe a dinosaur costume. All dressed up and feeling green, she peered out of the window of the Styrofoam tower. All of the cats were assembled in the courtyard. The engineer descended to join them. She found herself at the bottom of the spiral staircase, where a sign on the door read Start.

With one stuffed green paw, the engineer pressed open the door. Inside was a yellow room with three more identical doors. Pushing each in succession, she found two of the doors would open while the third was merely part of the wall. As the engineer moved through two more rooms, she was able to calculate that the tower was rectangular — three rooms across and four long. Aha, she thought. One of the doors on the exterior wall should open and lead to the exit. Jutting her furry chin with confidence, the engineer barged through one of the doors with one stuffed elbow stretched out in front of her. Then, wham! Two cats dressed as princesses assaulted her with squishy foam bats. The engineer struggled with the costumed cats. Eventually overcoming her challengers, she raced through the rest of the maze, as fast as she could wearing dinosaur feet. She burst victorious through the tower’s exit and joined the Queen and her entourage in the courtyard.

Each day passed with similar strange activities, until a week had nearly gone. The engineer had forgotten all about her quest. But the Queen knew, and one day she said, “You know, you only have one day left to find your little dog.”

“Oh, how could I forget!” cried the engineer. “I’ll be living in a tent in the woods at this rate! How will I find a lively, pretty dog…and how do I get out of here, anyway?”

“Bus driver’s child, do not be troubled,” the Queen said. “I will make everything easy for you. My van can drop you off at home in a couple of hours.”

“Thank you,” the engineer said. “But how will I find a lively little dog?”

“Heaven knows why anyone would want one, but here…” the Queen said. She held out her hand. In her palm appeared a walnut-shaped cake. “Inside this cake is a delicious nutty filling, oh, and the prettiest little dog you ever will see.”

The engineer held the cake up to her ear. Inside, a tiny voice said, “Bow-wow!” It must be a very small dog indeed! Then, as promised, the Queen’s van shepherded the engineer, the cake, and the dog all the way back to the city in time.

When the engineer met up with her siblings, each presented their dogs to their father. At first, no one could decide which dog was prettier, the one brought by the airline pilot or the one brought by the human rights lawyer. Then the engineer drew from her pocket a little pink box with the walnut cake. She opened the box. Then she opened the cake. There upon a cushion was a dog so small it could easily have been put through a wedding ring. It was exceedingly lively and pretty.

The bus driver knew it was impossible to find a smaller and prettier dog than this. Nevertheless, he was in no hurry to part with his house. He told the engineer, the airline pilot, and the human rights lawyer that they should leave again and find him a piece of muslin so fine that it could be made into curtains for the guest room.

The engineer left the house and ambled down the street, heavy hearted. Then she perked up, for at the end of the block there stood the Queen’s van.

“How could I hope that you would come back to me?” said the Queen when the engineer returned to the Styrofoam castle. “You’re in luck. I have cats here who spin very well. If anybody can manage some guest room curtains, they can. I will set them the task myself.”

At once, the Queen’s entourage appeared carrying torches. They conducted the engineer and the Queen to a miniature racecourse, where tiny tricycles awaited them all. Some of the tricycles were shaped like green fish, others like blue rubber ducks, others like orange, long-eared rabbits. The engineer and the cats each chose a tricycle and lined up at the starting line. A pistol sounded. Bang!

The engineer and the cats pedaled around the racecourse. The cats were small enough to fit on the tricycles, but the engineer found her knees at her ears as she scrambled to pedal the infernal machine. She frantically steered while steam spewed out of fissures in the roadway, knocking the players off balance. Then the roadway tipped out from underneath, sending players tumbling into mud pits. The engineer studied the racecourse. She chose the shortest vector to the finish line, determined her velocity, sped ahead on a perfect curve, and handily won the race.

As before, the engineer and the cats spent six days in such activities. Then the Queen reminded the engineer that a week had passed and she needed to return home to her father with the muslin for the guest room. “This time,” the Queen said, “I can give you a suitable escort.” A golden rocket appeared in the courtyard, enameled in flames with a thousand different devices. The engineer had never smiled so broadly in her life.

“Go!” said the Queen, “And when you appear before the bus driver, he will surely grant you the house you deserve. Take this taiyaki, but do not open it until you are with him. You will find inside it the fabric that he asked for.”

The engineer looked at the taiyaki, a fish-shaped waffle presumably filled with custard — and muslin — and said, “Lovely Queen, how can I thank you for all of your kindness?”

“I’ll come up with something,” the Queen said.

When the engineer arrived home in her speedy gold rocket, her two siblings were presenting the muslin they’d found at the city’s fabric stores — which were no longer in the garment district because the rent got too high. Indeed, the stuff was very fine. The engineer greeted them and took the taiyaki from her pocket. She opened it, expecting to find beautiful muslin, but instead there was only a gummy candy. She squished the gummy candy, but inside it lay only a cherry stone. Then she cracked open the stone and drew out the most marvelous set of guest-room curtains that were to be found anywhere.

The bus driver said with a deep sigh, “Nothing could make me happier than your willingness to run all over the world looking for strange objects at my behest. Go then once more, my children, and whoever at the end of a week can bring back the loveliest female companion for me, shall, without further delay, receive the house.”

The engineer returned in earnest to the Queen, riding her rocket enameled in flames with a thousand different devices. This time, the path to the Styrofoam castle was strewn with confetti, and a hundred braziers burned incense in her honor. The Queen sat in a gallery near a towering paper mâché wall. Crenellations punctuated the top, and beyond it stood a sunny orchard filled with enchanted fruit.

The Queen’s cats each grabbed a ladder and set them up at the base of the wall. Another cat held a flag and was dressed hat-and-tails like a little Napoleon. “Go!” Napoleon shouted and lowered the flag. Each player used their ladder to try to climb over and reach the fruit.

The engineer grabbed a ladder, but then she saw that the players were having trouble. Each time a cat reached the top of the wall, the ladder would shrink, or the wall would grow, so that no cat could reach the top and win. The engineer thought for a moment. Then she dropped the ladder, launched her body at the wall, and free climbed over the struggling cats using nothing but her own brute strength. She leaped, victorious, to the top of the wall, pumped her fist in the air, and yelled, “Yeah!”

The engineer returned to the Queen with as much of the enchanted fruit as she could carry. At this, the Queen said, “Thank you kindly, and as you must take back a lovely companion for your father, I will be on the lookout for one. In the meantime, tonight I have ordered a battle between my cats and the river rats to amuse you.”

“Outstanding,” the engineer said.

This week, too, slipped by in such events, until one evening the Queen said, “If you want to take home a lovely companion for your father, then you must do as I tell you. Take this sword,” she said, “and cut off my head!”

“I!” the engineer cried, “I cut off your head? I’m an engineer, not a murderer!”

“Do as I say,” the Queen said.

Tears came to the engineer’s eyes, but she drew the sword, calculated the angle to .01% margin of error, and swiftly cut off the Queen’s head.

Imagine the engineer’s astonishment when a lovely white cat stood before her!

“S– Snowy?!”

It was her father’s cat, Snowy, tragically lost in a blizzard some five years before.

“You see, engineer,” Snowy said, “you were right in thinking I was no ordinary cat. Your father, who loved me dearly, lost me one night in a February blizzard. When I came to, I found myself trapped in this Japanese game show! Now we must hurry back to the city, where surely he will be overjoyed to see his old companion.”

The engineer carried the cat to the rocket and ferried her back to her father’s house. When they arrived, her siblings were walking upon the veranda, each with a lovely companion for their father. They all came to greet the engineer, asking if she had also found a candidate. She said that she had found someone quite suitable — Snowy, their father’s dear lost cat!

The siblings all hastened to tell the bus driver, who was overjoyed to be reunited with Snowy, his all-time favorite companion.

“Dear bus driver,” said Snowy, “I’ve been waiting so long to see you. I was trapped for five years in a Japanese game show and longed for someone to come break the spell. Finally, someone did. Your own child, the engineer!”

The engineer smiled with a sparkle in her eye, certain she’d won the house. Then her father said, “My dearest children, this is the perfect outcome. For now, I don’t have to change my will at all! The original beneficiary was, of course, Snowy.”

The engineer seethed at the cat. You knew! But the cat pretended not to notice. She meticulously preened her pristine white fur. It flowed gracefully over her shoulders. Streams of enchanted flowers were twinkling in her path.

The bus driver gazed lovingly at Snowy. Snowy purred pompously at the bus driver. A murderous murmur rose from all around.

“Hey, you know your Aunt Edie, the slumlord?” said the bus driver, taking his precious cat in his arms. “Maybe she’ll rent you an apartment.”

 

 

About the author: Dianthe West (she/they) is an art historian turned poet and fiction author, which was always the prize. Their work is inspired by the sublime and the quirky, from Gothic landscapes to urban fantasy to Carrollian fairy tale satire. Dianthe's poetry has been featured in HWA Poetry Showcase IX. They live with their family, plants, four-legged familiars, and hundreds of grazing bunnies in Guelph, Ontario.

See more of Dianthe’s work on their website, and connect with them on Bluesky, Twitter/X, and Mastodon

Mechanism of Perfection by Douglas W. Milliken

It was fun making new friends after our university got bombed. Marlene was a photographer we knew or anyway came to know, though the consistent glamour of her carriage and dress would at a glance suggest that she was more comfortable in front of the camera than behind it. Honestly, it was almost a little too much. The gold sequins. The ruby on one ring finger and the sapphire on the other. The perfect coiffure. The black Nat Shermans fitted one after another into an actual long-stemmed ivory holder. Who can do laundry in such a getup?

Now given such a public face, one would expect (or at any rate, be vulnerable to such clichéd thinking as to expect) that Marlene would work in fashion, but she was actually an arts photographer (mostly). I came to know this one night when Denver and I were throwing back whiskeys at a dark back table at the Oral School (which had undergone quite a reversal in image and clientele over the course of just a year or so, somehow appearing posh to the eyes of the slicker drinking crowds despite the pock-marked bar and stain-variegation on the floor—perhaps having earned some cultural cachet due to its proximity to the bombed-out campus—and though the tables were crowded now with brokers and closers, the staff still recognized us as the firebomb survivors and, as such, treated us with a veteran’s respect), wearing loosened ties and open blazers so as to blend in with the surrounding Hump Day financiers washing their work- lives away with domestics and Red Bull cocktails (our work days, of course, were just beginning). In his typical mannish love of theatrics, Denver thrilled in this small play of dress- up, in the simplicity of hiding in plain sight, but this was to a degree how I dressed anyway: a little too fancy to be casual and a little too sweated-through to be respectable. Which meant I wasn’t really hidden at all. Most of the abounding douches probably saw me as some kind of an intern, perhaps even Denver’s sweet-cheeked protégé, working for nothing and showing it despite my efforts. It’s possible I assume too much what others assume of me.

But anyway, somewhere around our second round, Marlene appeared and joined us at our corner high top, looking like the singer in a jazz club and parsing the room with just as much sensual grace. While Denver and I carried on with whatever pedantic whiskey ramble we were on, Marlene smoked two cigarettes to bookend her one rye Old Fashioned and barely said a word. Or at least no word I can recall. I remember, her eyes were Cool Hand Luke blue. Just devastating. When she plucked her second Nat Sherman from its ivory stem and dropped it in the ashtray, Denver gulped the rest of his drink, paid their tab, and followed Marlene out the door and into her car: they were heading up to Denver’s lakeside studio to photograph his current series of creep-ass sculptures. But I was used to such abrupt exits. I finished out the night chipping some suit’s front tooth for calling me a dyke, then went back to the office mechanical room where I was squatting those days, cold-water washed my face in the utility sink and got back to frittering over whatever I thought I was making back then.

Marlene never photographed any of my work, if only because I wasn’t producing anything at that point that could meaningfully be caught on film. In truth, I only ever saw her really at work once, when I was lung-sick and crashing on the couch in TC’s studio and she came to document his series of phthalo blue paintings. I remember, the medium itself posed specific challenges to their efforts to document, as each piece was painted on an 8’ x 4’ x 1/4 ” sheet of industrial aluminum I had discovered and TC had reclaimed from a derelict factory amid the sulfurous brown fields ranging alongside the city’s southern-most river. Despite because of—I really don’t understand the refractive and reflective properties of different paints) the uniformly even application of phthalo blue, the sheets each held a distinctive metallic gleam, an aspect TC considered crucial to the actual, individual experience of the paintings but detrimental to photographic documentation. It was a problem Marlene was uniquely suited to solve. But it took time.

Her setup seemed really antiquated to me, but what the hell do I know about cameras and lighting? Pretty much all my experience in the medium has been limited to some form of street photography, none of which I’ve actually conducted myself. Wrapped in a blanket in a sprung wingback chair tucked into the studio’s corner (sick as I was, I did not want to appear completely infirm before the glittery splendor of Marlene), I watched the two of them work, taking note of how TC nimbly set up the panels and adjusted the lights like a homunculus extension of Marlene’s will as she never once cut her cool blue-eyed gaze away from the subject at hand. It somehow struck me as an oddly swift process and also a lot of real labor, less like the goings on of two artists and more like a master technician—a surveyor or architect—and her apprentice diligent at their job. The perfection and execution of the work is what mattered most. Even Marlene’s smoking seemed disciplined in its control and gesture, like some weird monk in meditation. She only dropped her ash when she wanted to. It all stood in such stark opposition to her sparkling black gown, the shimmering tiara in her hair.

Because the sheet metal we’d salvaged from the long-defunct factory was old and ill-kept and exposed to the elements, each panel bore a unique mark of wear and weathering and indelible grime, all of which would show through the layers of phthalo blue. It was these discrete imperfections in the metal’s surface that gave each painting its character: while some read as dyed enlargements of biological samples on a slide, others seemed to contain monochromatic storm systems or the smear of fingerprints ruining a mishandled collodion plate. Some registered as diffuse landscapes. A few somehow even suggested portraiture. All of it the random permutations and wild vagaries of neglect.

In those years I knew Marlene—while I gradually transitioned out of the crust-punk squatter lifestyle and into something a bit more stable if not equally squalid—she and I were almost never alone together. I’m not sure I could even repeat a single one of our conversations. Each time I try, all I see are those impossible Paul Newman eyes cutting through the smoke-thick atmosphere of a bar or a house party. How is it that it always seemed like we were locking eyes in silent concord amid all the raucous macho boys who made up our social circle? How did her gaze seem to contain so much knowledge, convey so much meaning? And did any of this ever actually happen beyond the arena of my fantasizing mind?

Only once did Marlene and I ever make arrangements to meet out, just the two of us, which proved to be the first of only two times I ever saw her in the full light of day. We met for coffee on a Tuesday or something at some anonymous kind of cafeteria—I remember, in her black high heels and pencil skirt, she was the most conservative I’d ever seen her—and even though she’d contacted me, had something she wanted to discuss with me, I couldn’t tell you what we talked about or if we talked about anything at all. I remember at one point she was asked by a busboy to put out her cigarette and her singular look of shame as she tabbed out her smoke in a saucer, remember how the whole time, she kept her blue eyes low.

I wonder now how possible it is that this is all she really wanted to show me: that she was vulnerable. That she was capable of being shamed.

It was nearly a year before I saw Marlene alone once more. Again, it was daytime. Again, she called me. Most of our boys by then had in their own ways dissolved into the teeming anonymity of the world, snatching opportunities in safer cities or rural outposts where no one knew their true names, or otherwise caught in crossfires or mortar barrages during any number of brief and unexplained upsurges of violence between the city and whomever that day had a complaint and means of making it heard. But I suspect that even if TC and Denver and the rest of them had hung around, I still would have been the one to whom Marlene reached out. From opposite ends, we’d arrived at the same place. I walked to her apartment and knocked on the door and she answered in some kind of worn-out silk nightgown, threadbare and dirty. Her skin was skim-milk blue. And she was bony. There was even a faint Prussian shadow of stubble coarsening her sharp chin and cheeks. That, more than anything, is how I knew she was sick.

This was the last time I’d ever see Marlene. You’d think I’d remember what we talked about. We drank Nescafé at her small Formica table and smoked cigarettes and I guess had to have said something. But what I remember are her walls, whitewashed and mostly bare but for a couple poster-sized prints of her photographs, children playing in vacant lots or alleys or rooftops or tenement basements. Her apartment was one big room with a bed and a table and a kitchenette and almost everything else dedicated to her photography. I remember, her old- looking camera—positioned before a light-diffusing neutral drop—dominated the room like a throne or altar, the capturing mechanism she worked through her devastating blue eyes. The air smelled of vetiver but also of something sour underneath. The Formica was blue and pocked. The chairs were of matching leather and chrome. But I cannot remember one word we said. When I first arrived, I administered a shot into her left arm because she was too shaky to hit the vein herself, and I could not say then or now if I was shooting her medicine or dope or if at that point there was even a distinction. I withdrew the syringe and in a moment her wavering hands calmed. Then she boiled water in an electric kettle that sang “Twinkle Twinkle” when it reached temperature and we had our Nescafé.

Before I left, Marlene had me stand in the lacuna between her camera and the neutral backdrop on the far wall. Then she took my picture. There was a particular sort of intimacy in that, knowing her eyes were on me in a different way, that she was looking at me through the tool of her perfection, her most rarefied self. She was seeing me as best she could and maybe seeing me at my best as well. It made everything in me feel afloat. It’s possible I reflected that buoyancy in my pose. Then the camera clicked, and it was done. At her door, she held me in our silent goodbye and immediately I was aware that this was the only time we’d ever touched. I could feel her heart unsteadily working behind the brittle weave of her breastbones, feel her hot breath on my ear. But of course, that one photograph was our real intimacy.

A few months later, I heard that Marlene’s family had claimed her body and buried her in a suit behind their church somewhere in Pennsylvania. The name ground into her tombstone was Marcus. I’m sure, in their zeal for appropriateness and correction, her family trimmed away every curl and lock of her gorgeous golden hair, sculpting what was left into a pomade part. In all I’ve seen and all I’ve experienced, this might be the greatest act of violence I can recall. The people who claimed to love her most, in her most vulnerable stripping her of her identity and hiding her in the grave of a boy.

I suppose it’s too obvious to say I never saw that one portrait she took, never saw how Marlene’s eyes really saw who I was and am.

 

 

About the author: Douglas W. Milliken is a queer composer, artist, and writer who, drawing from personal experience, examines intersecting themes of addiction, mental health, sexuality, poverty, and trauma. The author of three novels—To Sleep as Animals, Our Shadows’ Voice, and Enclosure Architect (forthcoming)—the family history Any Less You (forthcoming), and the collection Blue of the World, he is also a founding member of the post-jazz chamber septet The Plaster Cramp, as well as the recipient of a Pushcart Prize and honors from the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance, Glimmer Train, and RA & Pin Drop Studios, among others. He lives with his partner in Saco, Maine.

See more of his work on his website, and connect with him on Instagram.

Teaching Democracy as an Art by Ronald Hugar, PhD

When I think about teaching, especially thinking about the teaching of writing, I begin worrying my memories of my years in professional “experimental” theater. From about 1967 to 1974 groups of unaffiliated thespians in New York City, of which I count myself, were engaged in creating a new kind of theater. Some of these thespians formed groups, such as The La Mama and The Ridiculous Theater, that were stationary and operated as semi-permanent ensembles, but most were independent of any organized associations and came together for only a brief moment to present their productions in lofts in Soho, church basements in the West Village, and even abandoned warehouses in the lower east side and Brooklyn.  Those involved made little, if any, money and were able to pursue their craft financially only through the courtesy of an Actor's Equity Showcase clause that allowed professional thespians to showcase their talents without pay and union repercussion for six weeks per production. Thus, the conditions and circumstances came together that allowed these theatrical visionaries to pursue their vision of a transactional and truly revolutionary theater.

            The movement died because of its refusal, or, perhaps, because of its inability, to become mainstreamed as a legitimatized American art form of the American Theater. American Theater at that time was, increasingly, becoming trapped between the classical demands of capitalism for ever greater margins of profit on ever smaller investments of venture capital and the artistic demands of a cold war politics played out in the arena of high culture.

Broadway theater, at that time already steeped in the practices of capitalism, drifted further into a reliance on the capitalization of sentimental spectacle in order to survive while the traditional, dramatic theater (best represented in the US by the work of Miller, Williams, et al.) found economic refuge in universities and government grants. Vestiges of this forgotten theatrical movement, what the French once called la theatre quart d’heure, remain in the minimalist movement of modern opera, although greatly diluted through co-option.

            Sets in this theatrical movement were usually limited to props and costumes, although the best of the productions usually limited costuming efforts to the casual street wear owned by the performers. Perhaps in the beginning, these limitations were imposed by economic necessity and determined by the physical confines of the available performance space, but these “disadvantages” were quickly used to advantage, with a resulting artistic focus on the demands of a performance rather than on the demands of the art. But this creative adaptation to advantage of limits, alone, would not make a theatrical movement. Many amateur theatrical groups today adapt to such lack in similar ways. The most remarkable trait of this almost forgotten theatrical movement that is relevant to the text below is its practice of perpetually revising the relationship between writing, performance, and the sources from which each sprang. The use of revision as a space and source for artistic invention created the necessity for the total participation of all present (i.e., the actors, the director, the audience, the stage crew, and so on) from the beginning to the end of a scheduled performance.

            Writing for this kind of theater became something different than writing a scripted narrative that is exhaustively rehearsed, as is the traditional practice when writing a play, an essay, or a book. Great gaps of silence in the text of a performance were created by and for the performers, and, unlike the gaps of silence in theater of the absurd, like those Pinter or Beckett created for the emphasis of the lack of a signifier, these gaps were spaces created for the concerted attempt of all involved to break down the signification of a signifier, to create gaps in which all the performers could explore the flows of their experience of the performance through body movement, speech, sound, props, or any combination of what and who was at hand at the moment. Whether that exploration was ad-libbed or rehearsed, the traditional flow of emplotted narrative was interrupted and the interruption filled with the suggestion of the disjunctions found in the experience of the rational, compossibilities (to borrow a Leibniz/Deleuzean term), of or . . or . . or . . or, brought about by an interactive, but disjunctive, movement between the audience and the performer that was textually created and explored. Each word, sentence, or limited narrative of a script written for and in this theater became launch points, marked breaks in the flow of traditional narrative structure, from which alternative possibilities for meaning were explored.

            I remember one particular production of Megan Terry’s, performed at the La Mama Café in Greenwich Village, in which snippets of dialogue were performed by the cast members within a tag-team format. The performers sat with the audience around the performing space before, during and after the scheduled performance. Two would begin their performance of a scene and at the whim of the director one, or both, of the performers would be replaced on a signal. The bits of dialogue within a performed scene were given context and narrative significance only through the voice inflection and body movement of the performers. The narrative expectations of the audience and performers were disrupted, changed, by the interplay of the differences of the performances given by each performer as they changed partners during mid delivery of a line or narrative sequence. Meaning became revealed as contingent upon their line deliveries, their voice inflection points and modes of emphasis, and their performative approaches to the dialogue, the moment of performance, and the audience. The compossibilities of signification, the flows of the performance, the action of deterritorializing and reterritorializing interrupted signifiers within a narrative was liberated from the despotism of the Playwright's voice as the signifier of a high, theatrical culture and created a glimpse of a kind of democratic, guerrilla theater.

            This was not improvisational theater, in which the despotism of the Playwright's voice as a signifier of a high culture is supplanted with the despotism of expressivism, the glorification of a performer's individual voice, as the authorized signifier of a signification. The "story" of this democratic, guerilla theater was not the story of narrative signification or the story of expressivist manipulation. The story of this democratic, guerrilla theater was the story of the flows of desire at work in the creation of meaning, the breaks and cognitive copulations, the eros, always at work between an audience, a known text, an expectation, and a performer that creates signification within a performed text.

            I once watched a production of theatrical poetry. One particular work was entitled "Great Balls of Fire." The performers left the stage and large luminescent balls were tossed from wing to wing for some fifteen seconds. The irony of literal signification brought gales of laughter from the small audience, but what followed was an almost preternatural silence, that was, in itself, a signification that preceded a signifying burst of applause.

            Who could imagine such a way of writing, such a way to experience writing? A writing that is both voiceless and many voiced, that is performative, entertaining, and dead, but naturally so, unlike the artificially animated, conventionalized, voice-graphic writing of what passes for dramatic writing within American theater today. Can this kind of multi-leveled, performance centered writing move from the theatrical arena into print, into thought? Can the writing that once served to create a fleeting but democratic, guerrilla theater serve as a writing for all media, as a paradigm for the act of writing without becoming paradigmatic? These are some of the questions that motivated the explorations that resulted in this text.

The best way to introduce my thoughts on a performative writing and the teaching of any genre of writing is to borrow an opening line of Susan Miller’s from Textual Carnivals: “This study is blatantly a fiction, which is to say that I have come to understand the politics of writing by learning that power is, at its roots, telling our own stories” (1). What follows below is a fiction of the worst sort. I eventually advocate the use of an autobiographic writing to promote the discovery of a democratic discourse and its possibilities for teaching writing, but I do so within the conventions of an academic discourse that permits only superficial gestures towards the autobiographic genesis of any text. The genesis of the text of this dissertation, the space in which it appeared and developed, began as a selective gathering of particular beliefs and practices that have shaped the experience of my life as a life. The dominant discourse conventions of the academy authorizing the following text as knowledge demanded that I restructure that experience as history, as a phenomenology of shared experience and expectations in which we all move and breathe, much like fish in a fishbowl who are self-consciously aware of the public display of their fish(y)ness. 

I came to higher education with little more than a vague desire for bettering my economic marketability within the very volatile job market of the mid 1980s. I was spurred into reinventing my “self” by an economic necessity. I came to higher education as a white, middle-aged male with a lifetime of experience that meant naught because its meaning as knowledge was unthought by me, or so I was so subtly informed by the texts I was assigned to read and the practices I had to master in the new-to-me environment I had so trustingly leaped into. The validity of my personal experience as a basis for knowledge was denied by the demands of my new social role as student and the institutionalized practices I had to master. Making “history” of this experience demanded that I accept, consciously or unconsciously, the transformation I underwent and would perpetually undergo to become a “successful” student as a willing, even if uninformed, submission to a politically and socially intentioned manipulation. To question the “truth” informing that manipulation would entail the recognition of an evil cynicism or unbelievable naïveté at work in either my intentions or those of the social objectives of liberal education. I must confess that I am ambivalent in my judgment of the possibility of a political cynicism or naïveté inherent in the social objectives of the liberal education I experienced. It is out of that ambivalence that the investigations of political theory that underpin this work sprang.

            Teaching as an ethical activity, in the situation described above, strikes me as tacitly accepted within Western society as a structured manipulation that is assumed as necessary for the preservation and pursuit of the “humaneness” of humanity—an obvious legacy of the ontological humanism shaping the metanarrative of an enlightened modernism. I suspect that teaching, like so much else we take for granted in our thinking, can be constructed as something Other, as an activity arising from the situations and experiences of those taught rather than from the “history” of those teaching or from the formalized intentions of the institutionalized social objectives authorizing the activity of those teaching as teaching.  Present pedagogy and the theory informing present pedagogical practices assume a lack within each student that is rooted in a moral negativity. For all the Rousseauian philosophical proclamations made by the promoters and practitioners of enlightened liberal education that human nature is innately good, the actual practices of teaching steeped in the ancient assumptions of the duality of human nature that ideologically structure pedagogy as pedagogy are revealed as Hobbesian in their dark assumptions about the true character of innate human nature. They are revealed as such if we question teaching as an activity whose practices and objectives are founded and justified by an officially “authorized” objective of history as the teleos of all human endeavor. Consequently, any act of teaching undertaken as an act to achieve the objectives of an enlightened liberal education within these circumstances and assumptions assumes as moral the perpetuation of a politics of justice that functions to repress a human nature that is constructed as fundamentally oriented toward individual gratification and destructive of a common moral good.

I have wrestled, sometimes covertly, sometimes overtly, with the question of what constitutes an ethical political action within a politicized writing classroom that is democratic in its procedures and objectives. Once anyone realizes that all social action is political, that any action taken, contemplated, or deliberated is always already political, they realize that a differend (Lyotard) is always already at issue at the inception of any act. Consequently, if a teacher understands her “teacherly” self as a political fiction, she tends to fictionalize her politicized teacherly self as a radical, revolutionary, liberal, conservative or reactionary and comes to understand her fictionalized “self” as a political posturing, a constructed stance that is founded in the “history” of her personal “resolution” to the experienced conflict of an ever present differend. If a teacher fictionalizes her teacherly self as radical, she may come to understand that her resolution to her experience of the differend is rooted in a posturing defined by a grand politics of justice. If she constructs herself as a revolutionary, she must eventually come to understand her resolution of the differend as an indulgence because justice, as a politics, assumes the ever present existence of a differend that is always irresolvable, that is fundamentally always already non-negotiable without some form of assimilation or appropriation of the difference that creates the conflict that marks the presence of a differend. If she constructs her “self” as a radical revolutionary, she must come to understand that justice “justifies” the violence of an imposed equilibrium through the granting of an absolution because justice assumes the always already existence of the differend as a transgression, an original sin that stains the motives behind every human endeavor.

To be radical or revolutionary, here, is simply a matter of degree, a matter of self-indulgence because to give oneself over to the non-negotiable incommensurability of the differend in a politics of justice is self-destructive, an intentional leap into the abyss of the difference that marks the truth of the differend, which denies the possibility of a justice because such a leap is a leap into a chaotic unknown. To make such a leap and believe that death and/or injury are not inevitable is not rational. It displays a delusional self-indulgence of the worst kind.

To leap into the unknown in protest of the status quo as unjust is rebellion for rebellion’s sake, from the perspective of a politics of justice. Such a rebellion is constructed as an adolescent gesture, worthy of note only in the tragedy of its waste.

To leap into the unknown just to leap is simply irrational, construed as an act of illness within a politics of justice. To leap just to leap and believe that you will survive simply because you have leaped is clearly delusionary and has nothing whatsoever to do with justice, let alone politics.

            Or, so a politics of justice would lead us to believe.

Francis Fukuyama in The Great Disruption published in 2000 writes about a social space that spontaneously appears in response to the convergence of need and opportunity that may reveal a politics that could serve as a viably democratic alternative to a politics of justice. He reports on a seemingly mundane social phenomenon that occurs regularly at the intersection of Bland Street and Old Keene Road in Springfield, Virginia, a suburb of Washington, D.C., where “a line of people forms during the morning rush hour. A car pulls up, and two or three commuters—none of whom is known to the driver—get in to ride north into downtown Washington. In the evening the same ritual unfolds in reverse, with cars full of strangers returning from downtown and dropping their passengers off so that they can pick up their own vehicles and head home” (143).

            These strangers call themselves slugs and their unusual social arrangement developed spontaneously to take advantage of the creation of HOV (High Occupancy Vehicle) lanes that can trim as much as forty minutes off a daily commute undertaken in a single occupant vehicle. This practice of slugging arose in immediate response to a perceived opportunity and has evolved, Fukuyama reports, “an elaborate set of rules over the years” that has yielded only two criminal incidents in thirteen years, both of which happened on dark winter mornings when few people were standing in line (144). However, Fukuyama points out, the practice of slugging, although not deliberately created by anybody, could not emerge just anywhere.  He observes that:

[t]here are many neighborhoods in the Washington area where this kind of order would be very unlikely. Some neighborhoods are too dangerous for people to wait on the street; in others the residents are too transient or culturally heterogeneous to agree on rules. Slugs are willing to get into the cars of complete strangers—to trust them—because, in the words of one participant, “They’re government workers. . . . They’re harmless” (144; emphasis and ellipsis Fukuyama’s).

In other words, the practice of slugging arose from a convergence of congenial happenstance that was spontaneously capitalized upon by individuals seeking a solution to an individual need or desire. The differences in perspective among the slugs that in other neighborhoods and times would prevent the practice of slugging from forming and remaining viable over a prolonged period of time are set aside or explained away in the fiction that “They’re government workers” and, therefore, “They’re harmless.”

The important aspect of slugging as a practice is that it arose and functions as an arational act that resulted in the creation of a viable social capital. Slugs are not responding to an organized call for action or functioning within an imposed social or political protocol.  They are acting arationally, which identifies their actions as actions that happen in response to simple stimuli and, thus, arational acts emerge holistically from a particular convergence of congenial happenstance to create a coherent and recognizably structured behavior that persists over a prolonged period of time. A structure arising arationally seems to grow of its own accord but it entails a complex set of behaviors that arise from the consistent and prolonged practice of a few simple rules. A rational act, by contrast, is logically consistent in its development of rules of behavior that are hierarchical in their logical priorities, and is usually imposed by an outside agency on a target group in its execution. An arational act is also fundamentally different from an irrational act in that an irrational act is one that appears as completely random or unfounded in any system of ordering that is explainable within a discernible and enduring pattern of linking and/or arrangement. An act is irrational when it fails to conform to a pattern of behavior deemed rational by the party judging the value of the action.

            In other words, the example of the behavior of the slugs exhibits in its arationality a heretofore unrecognized path to the development of social capital that, in Fukuyama’s words, “emerges in a spontaneous and decentralized fashion” (145). Slugs leap into an abyss of difference armed with only the belief that the strangers they are interacting with are only “government workers,” and, because of their government worker identity, “[t]hey’re harmless.” The upshot of this kind of arational development of social behavior, Fukuyama notes, is that it functions as demonstrative proof that “[s]ocial regulatory norms [. . .] will arise out of self-interested interactions of individual agents and do not have to be mandated through law or formal institutions (192). Arational social phenomenon, he states, is facilitated by iteration: “That is, if people know that they have to live with one another in bounded communities where continued cooperation will be rewarded, they develop an interest in their own reputations, as well as in the monitoring and punishment of those who violate community rules” (193). These bounded communities, as the example of the slugs demonstrates, can be, and usually are, quite different in their formation and purpose than the traditional conceptions of community found in Western society that are modeled on the Greek idea of community as polis.

            Since these iterative communities are not bounded by an imposed rational order but become bounded through an arational process emerging from quite localized phenomena and practices, they are inherently democratic in nature because participation is a matter of choice and not limited by an externalized and morally or politically imposed criteria. Slugs leap, or, perhaps more accurately, they hop into the abyss of difference on a daily basis because they are motivated to participate only by their singular desire to participate in the benefits of participation. So thin and unfounded is the logic that justifies the trust underwriting their daily leap that the abyss of difference they leap into appears to them more like the stepping across of a threshold, an action perceived as little more important or dangerous than stepping across the thresholds of their homes or offices.  This is not an activity or social capital that is founded on a politics of justice. If anything, it is founded on a politics of desire that is made rationally and socially acceptable in the vocabulary and syntax of a politics of justice.

            We can begin to see once we make room in our thinking for the ideological and political validity of arational acts that, as Kurt Spellmeyer in “On Conventions and Collaboration: The Open Road and the Iron Cage” puts it,

There is, in other words, always a degree of slippage between custom (or culture) and social structures, between evolving human purposes and more stable institutions—and neither the structures nor their cultural underpinnings are consistent in themselves. Although social systems provide a “loosely integrated” framework for future action, they cannot predetermine the shape, pace, or direction of this action on any scale, if only because no system is free from inconsistencies, and no society—no community, as we might put it—has yet managed to escape all the vestiges of difference and dissent. But to escape them at some future time would be,[. . .], an absolute disaster, since inconsistencies permit the fabrication of new knowledge in response to changing circumstances of the re-formation of established knowledge on behalf of those hitherto excluded from the inner circles of social power (89-90).

The recognition of arational acts as political acts that display a decided affinity to what is commonly held as democratic behavior in their execution supports Kurt Spellmeyer’s charge in his 1994 article, “On Conventions and Collaboration: The Open Road and the Iron Cage,” that “although culture is indeed a construct, there are no rules for constructing society itself because the act of construction always begins where it is needed, at the points of discontinuity, tension, exclusion, and rupture.”

The recognition of arational acts as a basis for creating social capital throws into question most of the structured relationships between the private and public realms of experience that shape Western political thinking and, consequently, the pedagogical objectives and practices of liberal “social-constructionist” thinking within a liberal college education. 

Arational acts strongly suggest that people function socially as singular individuals bound to community by circumstance and in willing, if often tacit, agreement rather than as citizen individuals of a nation/state bound in community by constitutionalized moral commitments to a morally and intellectually abstracted humanity. 

The distinction between an individual and a singular individual arises from poststructuralist thought on identity formation, where individuation is theorized as not arising from a naturalized correspondence between internalized qualities of character and externalized behavior but from the interplay of forces that shapes the perspective of a knowing sentience.  

Deleuze and Guattari in their books Anti-Oedipus and A Thousand Plateaus appear to envision the singular individual as a singularity of experience who acts in accordance with her will to life--her desire. The individual as a singularity of experience exists as a singular manifestation of the universal experience of desire, and they act in an immanent field of experience that will fulfill that desire. If identity resides at all in this conception of the individual, it resides at the point of cognitive movement, the point of perception where cognitive thought consciously engages the possibilities inherent in the  fields of action that open during fleeting congruence of aleatory circumstance. With each act of cognitive movement the individual experiences as discovery the possible scopes for identity, scopes which exceed the limits of conception provided by conventionalized constructions of identity. Identity, if what follows such movement can be construed as identity, spills into a realm of contiguous possibilities that are simultaneously the same and different.

The only constant within this conception of identity is the experience of change and movement as the stuff from which we, as an intelligence, are made. It is the intensity, the devotion of attention and action as thought to the cognitive mapping of the direct, unfiltered experience of possibility as the realm of identity that marks the difference between the political action of a singularity and that of an individual. The creation of meaning in language for an individual as singularity is no longer caught in the descriptive/prescriptive loop of the great postulate of language at work in our culture. The language of a singularity enunciates the scope of possible cognitive movement at any given moment and becomes part of the value, the intensity, of experience, rather than the agent for smothering the intensity of meaning through acting as both the definer and the representative of experience.

The possibility for a writing that presents itself as something other than the recording of the determination and representation of thought begins to present itself here. We see the nascence of such a writing in the work of such writers as Deleuze, Guattari, Bataille, Cixous, Barthes, Kristeva, Vitanza  and a host of other poststructural thinkers. The great difference in such a writing is that its source for meaning resides in the affective space that singular readers and writers map in language and within the action of a singularity who undertakes the task of creating/discovering meaning within that space.

In light off all the above, the question of what constitutes an ethical political action within a politicized classroom that is democratic in its procedures and objectives begins to appear to entail a massive task of redefinition. The interweaving of all the elements involved, elements commonly thought as distinct and separate realms of investigation, raises the specter of redefining not only categories but the idea of categorizing itself. As I write the possibility of such a task, I think of the opening line Michel Foucault wrote in his preface to The Order of Things,

his book first arose out of a passage in Borges, out of the laughter that shattered, as I read the passage, all the familiar landmarks of my thought—our thought, the thought that bears the stamp of our age and our geography—breaking up all the ordered surfaces and all the planes with which we are accustomed to tame the wild profusion of existing things, and continuing long afterwards to disturb and threaten with collapse our age-old distinction between the Same and the Other (xv).

As members of the oldest surviving democratic republic in history and as very involved participants in the first time ever attempt to extend the possibility of a literate education to all who are alive as a right of their humanity, we tend to forget how new that idea truly is in relation to the number of generations who have recorded fragments of their own passages and thoughts on this earth.

A writing that encompasses and claims to perpetuate the experiences of democracy as democratic should in and of itself question any practice whose ideological validity appears as self-evident. At the moment the very idea of democracy as conceived above is under severe attack from groups dedicated to the capitalist idea that all human endeavor is to be understood in terms of monetary profit. Their tactics focus on disrupting the idea of education as a human right and replacing it as a human necessity that must be carefully controlled and guided for the preservation of a working society. The idea of a democratic classroom arising from the voices of the students may very well run into the same barriers and difficulties of the early democratic guerilla theater in New York in the late 60s and early 70s. It may very well suffer the same fate unless the reality of shared experience is recognized as the very fuel and building material of democracy itself.

 

 

About the author: Ronald Hugar, PhD, is a 76 year old ex-college prof living on the Indiana-Ohio state line. Find him on Facebook.